Fate Will Find A Way
by Rocket Into Highness
Summary: "A tale of two kindred souls fated together, but destined apart. Separated by distance, but kept by a love that shall not depart. They look ahead and fly away, hoping that ever still; Fate will find a way."   Post-Inheri, mainly ExA. Full summary inside!
1. Chapter 1

Full summary of the story:

_Post-Inheritance, set fifty years after._

As the new leader of the Riders, Eragon and Saphira had spent the last fifty years in Alalea- the Elves' homeland; rebuilding what once was, and what will be. But when Fate takes an unexpected twist; Eragon and Saphira find themselves returning to the land they had once called home. Upon his return, Eragon realises that feelings do not change, nor do they ever die.

_A tale of two kindred souls fated together, but destined apart  
>Separated by distance, but kept by a love that shall not depart-<br>A love that will outlast Empires; will always remain a fire,  
>A love that can never be forgotten nor can it ever die.<em>

_They look ahead and fly away  
>Hoping that ever still; Fate will find a way.<em>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1 - Prologue: A New Beginning<strong>

Fifty years had passed since Eragon Kingkiller and his dragon Saphira had set sail for the land of Alalea. Within that time, Alagaësia was restored to its former peace and harmony. The land was brought forth from the age of darkness, into a new era of light and hope. United by the sense of peace, all races came together in amity.

With power and strength provided by the Eldunarya- Eragon had sealed an irrevocable pact that also allowed Dwarves and Urgals to join the ranks of the Elves and Humans who could form bonds with the land's most majestic creatures- the dragons. Each race was content with the pact.

For fifty years, Nasuada, daughter of Ajihad, and her husband Murtagh- and this had been a cause for a land-wide shock- ruled the united lands of Alagaësia together. However, the peoples of Alagaësia had prospered under their rule and the quick judgement and bitter condemnation that people previously held in their hearts for the Red Rider gradually disappeared.

Although Nasuada and Murtagh were ultimately the rulers of the united lands of Alagaësia- divided; Arya Drottning of the Elves ruled Du WeldenVarden, Roran Stronghammer, of the now-prosperous city of Carvahall and the Spine, King Orrin ruled Surda, the Dwarven King- Orik, ruled Tronjheim and its remarkable surrounding cities, Nar Gazvhog, of the Urgals and Kull, and Grimmr Halfpaw, King of the Werecats- all ruled their races peacefully and joined in council and alliance of the lands and people of Alagaësia. With this remarkable unity, the land nourished and flourished. Fifty years of rebuilding and the land entered a gloriously golden era.

Eragon and Saphira Brightscales, leaders of the new generation of Dragon Riders, along with several of the Elves whom had departed with them, had rebuilt the original home of the Riders in the land of Alalea- a far away place located in the far east of Alagaësia. Upon their arrival, the elves, Eldunarya and Eragon were not surprised to find the land inhabited by other Elves. Such meeting was fascinating for both sides. The Alalean elves were astonishingly not surprised to hear of the atrocities commited by the previous tyrannt king Galbatorix. Through their connection with Alalea- which Eragon found out throughout the Alalean elves' knowledge- that it was a sister-land to Alagaësia. They were very much intuned to their land as Elves were in Alagaësia.

Alalea was a beautiful, serene land inhabiting a few hundred Elves- all of whom spoke the Ancient Language as a first language. Although, many of them were also familiar with other languages "other beings"- as they so termed them- spoke with. Eragon had perceived them to be highly knowledgable people, as gifted, graceful and beautiful as the elves of Alagaësia. Alalea was not exactly ruled by a leader, but Eragon instantly recognised the elf whom every Alalean elf regarded with the highest regard and respect; a male elf called Celebriän.

Eragon immediatey knew Celebriän was a significant figure-head. He had an authority about him that reminded Eragon of Nasuada's supremacy over the land, and Roran's determination and strong heart. He spoke on behalf of the elves of Alalea and had regarded Eragon with the same mutual respect and admiration. Eragon had been profoundly gratified by the respect.

The size of the Alalea was less than half of Alagaësia's, but there was no desert. With the arrival of the dragons, they initially refused the idea of having them reside in their land, but through the explanation of many concepts- which Eragon again, was amazed to realise that the Alalean elves had never heard of- the main one being Dragon Riders. The Alalean elves were peaceful people- for milleniums, they had experienced no conflict or chaos. So with the arrival of boisterous dragons and their Riders, they took a long while to persuade. However, with the help of their kin Elves from Alagaësia, the Alalean elves soon inclined.

Alalea's buildings were simple and definitely not grand compared to the likes of those Eragon recalled in fairths of Vroengard's- when it was still inhabited by Dragon Riders. However, with the gradual respect, amnity and permission of Celebriän, and more importantly the Alalean elves and along with the aid and support of the Eldunarya; all the elves and Eragon had reconstructed and rebuilt extraordinary buildings in which appeared akin to the ones of the olden days of the Riders. The Alalean elves were as skilled in magic and craft as the elves of Alagaësia's. However, in terms of swordsmanship and combat- as Eragon realised- they were barely incomparable.

But with the combination of Alalean and Alagaësia's elves' eye and thought for craft and design; glory and magnificence- as marble and intricate buildings- graced the land.

The main and the most grand building in the land was called _Du Skulblaka Breaol_, roughly translated into the common tongue as "The Home of Dragons". White pillars that reached over fifty feet high and expanded fifty feet across were constructed and they were so wondrously grand to behold. There were endless engravings on the hall's walls, from the entrance to the end; every dragon's name that ever lived – save for the Forsworn's dragons- were noted down in memory. In addition, narrow but long panes of window frames spanned one end of the hall to the other; providing daylight that always casted a warm glow about the building.

In the great hall of Du Skulblaka Breaol, hundreds of alcoves were carved on the walls. In these alcoves' place were the Eldunarya of both tamed and wild dragons who had survived the Fall of the Riders over a hundred and fifty years ago. In the spacious environment, the Eldunarya remained at peace and in contentment. Eragon, or any of the Elves or young dragons and their Riders who had since joined them throughout the fifty years of residing in Alalea, often came to the great hall to ask for advice or simply for company with the ancient dragons.

Throughout the land, huts and houses were built- in any fashion which suited and pleased the resident. However, Riders in training and their dragons had to live in the building next to Du Skulblaka Breaol. Several of the Elves who had originally left Alagaësia with Eragon and Saphira were also regarded as teachers on the land, although Eragon was acknowledged as the Leader. Through the guidance of Umaroth, Glaedr and the other older dragons, only Eragon could properly educate the hatchling dragons and their Riders with the right training. However, with skills such as basic magic and swordsmanship the other elves helped Eragon with.

Throughout the fifty years in Alalea, there had been a number of nine and forty Riders who came to live on the land. Out of the nine and forty, nine and twenty were elves- seven were female and eight were male, seventeen were humans- seven females and nine males, three were Dwarves- all males and three were Urgals- all males.

To Eragon's surprise one day, on his fifteenth year on the land- when the second group of new Riders arrived- one of them had been Ismira, who was Roran's- his cousin and his wife Katrina's daughter; therefore ultimately, making her Eragon's niece. The girl had been five and ten- the same age Eragon had been when he found Saphira- when she arrived in Alalea, along with her scarlet-coloured dragon, Latheria- and had instantly called Eragon Uncle.

Eragon had nearly choked when she had first addressed him with such title.

Ismira had dark, coppery hair- the same as her mother- and held a very striking resemblance to her too. At first, the girl was quite demure, again reminding Eragon of his sister-in-law Katrina. However, once he had gotten to know her, Eragon had then gathered that although Roran did not look a lot like her, they certainly held very strong similarities when it came to skills and personality: defiant, fierce and stubborn. Not to mention that Ismira also showed an exceptional skill in wielding a weapon- her favourite- a dual axe.

Eragon had smiled in amusement when Ismira engaged in combat with the weapon against another human male, nearly beheading him. She was slightly more graceful than her father, wielding the dual axes with swift and fiery fury.

In a short amount of time, he and Ismira had quickly bonded. Although Eragon treated her like one of his students, he could not also help in treating her like a niece. This show of favouritism had caused quite a jealousy amongst some of the younger Riders, and Eragon had since then attempted to restrain his favouritism from being too evident. As a result, Eragon insisted on her calling him _Ebrithil _rather than Uncle during lessons. Still, Eragon and Ismira shared a family bond that could not be denied. And Eragon rather enjoyed her company, as she strongly reminded him of his cousin, whose company he missed very dearly.

Entrusted with Ismira when she had arrived in Alalea was a long letter written by Roran. His cousin was profoundly saddened- and Katrina devastated- that Ismira had to leave them. However, through the mirror glass Eragon had long ago given to his cousin, he contacted them and let them know Ismira would be well looked after. And indeed she had been. Under his guide and family company, Ismira rose amongst her peers with flying colours.

Upon her fifth year of completing another Rider training, Ismira was allowed to go back to Alagaësia. In order to make her happy, Eragon had ordered her position there so she could be with her family. Ismira only had to return every several months or so to Alalea to resume her studies. Although a Rider could complete their Rider's training in four to five years' time, they never stop learning about new knowledge and ways to improve their skill- whether it be swordsmanship or magic.

Every day in Alalea, there was always the boisterous ringing of metal against metal, the explosion of vibrant magic against magic and the determined grunts of frustration and cries of victory of the Riders. In the sky, the mighty roars of their dragons echoed and blazes of fire lit up the sky in vivid, astonishing hues. On a particularly eventful day, the sky could appear like an eruption of dazzling colours. Ranging from bright yellow to bright blue, the dragons' scales had never ceased to astound and amaze their spectators.

Eragon was ever patient and diligent in his teaching. He was regarded as a kind but resilient leader. Although he was very young in years according to immortal standards- the knowledge and experience in his voice and way of understanding accounted for an unfathomable wisdom that made him sound seemingly decades older.

Although Eragon frequently walked the halls of Du Skulblaka Breaol, he and Saphira resided in the north-western part of the land. Overlooking the sea- due to a special reason why Eragon did so- he and Saphira had built a great house. The house had three fascinating layers; the bottom floor an underground fort that was inspired by the dwarves' construction, the middle floor and top floor was a huge tree fashioned and sung into existence- inspired by the elven and human construction.

The design was intricate; the tree and its long thick branches twisted and where some interweaved, left gaps that provided window-like purposes. Also inspired by the false impression of the buildings in Helgrind, Eragon had intoned permanent spells of some parts of the house that served as entrance ways for Saphira. Where seemingly appeared to be a physical obstruction, Saphira only had to fly into and she would then find herself inside the house. However- much to Eragon's temporary amusement- this had taken Saphira a slight while to get used to.

Much of the house's interior was again inspired by the Elves' designs. Wooden tables, chairs and other furniture adorned the rooms. Numerous fairths were hung on the house's walls; the painting of Iliria which was composed by Eragon's previous master- Oromis- was one such fairth. Others were of several cities, the village of Carvahall was the largest of the landscape fairths. It dominated much of the wall space of the house's living room.

However in the Rider's bedroom were fairths of a few people. One was of Roran, Katrina and their child Ismira- composed by Eragon on his first few days in Alalea. It depicted Roran's family happily, Ismira lovingly held in Katrina's arms and Roran's adoration and joy perceptible in his countenance. Another fairth was of Brom and Selena- Eragon's parents, which occupied the space next to Roran's family's fairth.

However, further away from the other two fairths was another. It depicted of a beautiful female elf- from the elegantly slanted brows and the delicately tapered ears. Dark, midnight hair cascaded down her shoulders, eyes a stunning emerald green that burned with concentrated and beautiful intensity and an expression that held such a strong fierceness that one was able to perceive the underlying defiance that graced her defined features. And yet, upon first impression, her warrior's fierceness was evident, there was also an undercurrent of vulnerability in the depiction- a gentleness that revealed her femininity.

The woman in the fairth was clad in black leather- a warrior's outfit and she held a stunningly burning emerald sword on her left hand. She was looking out, seemingly onto a distant expanse, her posture the epitome of grace and defiance- a female warrior. It was one the Rider Eragon cherished the most above all others. There was writing barely discernible on the bottom right corner of the fairth and handwritten in a neat, flowing stroke, it read, _Arya_.

Ismira, who was the only handful amongst those who had been able to enter the Rider's house had once questioned Eragon about the female elf, "Who is she, Uncle?" she had asked innocently when she first saw the fairth. Eragon's countenance had instantly acquired that of a sombre man. His eyes swam with deep sadness. There was a long filled silence before Eragon had deigned to answer, "She…is a dear friend."

The hesitance had been evident. Ismira pursued, but had appeared sad for Eragon and she asked gently, a question that could not be mistaken for its meaning, "Why are you not with her?"

Eragon had closed his eyes. If it had not been for anyone else apart from his niece, he would've ignored them and walked away. He was only ever going to say it once out loud, "Ismira, I regard my duty as a head Rider with such importance that I hold it above anything else." And that was all he dared say. But, much to Eragon's dismay, Ismira had held the stubbornness of her father.

"Can you not visit Alagaësia once in a while to see her, Uncle?" she had asked softly.

With a sad countenance shrouding Eragon's features, he had merely repeated, "Duty before anything, Ismira. I must stay here." Eragon had then walked away, leaving Ismira in an unsettling silence. Ismira had never asked of the female elf again.

Overlooking the sea into the west, Eragon also had a wide balcony that he was often seen looking out of. This had been the subject of the many curious wonderings of some of the Riders in training; although throughout the fifty years, none were encouraged to ask why; nor also asked about the marvel of the golden lilies that surrounded the house.

Although, when one of the trainees dared to ask one of the original elves who had sailed with Eragon from Alagaësia- they had simply given a response that hinted of a sad story of love. If one listened hard enough, songs in the Ancient Language wove into the air, carrying a melancholy tune which riddled the night. It brought a sense of unbearable sadness and anguish into the hearts of those who listened. Roughly translated to the Common Tongue, the verses were just a little insight to what epic love truly was;

"_He looks not ahead, but deep inside,  
>Conflicted; he fights with all his might<em>

_He longs for what could never be,  
>But equally what could be<em>

_He always hopes, but ends up lost in thought,  
>Still of times that pain a-brought.<em>

_A tale of two kindred souls fated together, but destined apart  
>Separated by distance, but kept by a love that shall not depart-<em>

_A love that will outlast Empires; will always remain a fire,  
>A love that can never be forgotten nor can it ever die.<em>

_He looks ahead and flies away  
>Hoping that ever still; Fate will find a way." <em>

So forlorn and dejected the Rider looked whenever he observed upon the sea ahead, that quiet songs were sung at night that spoke of a sad tale of love. And above, as always whenever the Rider was out on the balcony, his dragon, Saphira always gave a long mournful keen. For most nights of the fifty long years, Eragon Son of None, Shadeslayer, Bromsson and Kingkiller, was reduced to nothing but simply Eragon. Known as the master, the Leader of the new generation of Dragon Riders, Eragon had held no such titles on those one or two hours of silent observance and contemplation. Because in those quiet moments; he was merely a man:

A man the same as any other; what his life, his hardships, what pain and experience shaped and moulded him burrowed deep into his chest and into his heart. A man the same as any other; with vulnerabilities and weaknesses that were capable of crippling. As invincible, powerful and wise he may appear in circumstances that demanded his neutral and professional façade; he was no more beyond than in those hours. A man the same as any other; haunted by his past and memories that were fought to be forgotten.

For in those hours, Eragon had simply thought of nothing but _her_.

**The Present**

Images flickered in Eragon's mind, shifting, evolving and floating aimlessly. Incoherent thoughts and words wandered around like a cluster of clouds on a blustery day. Eragon's sense of emotion was numbed in his dream-like trance, seemingly swathed in a thick blanket. He could sense them beneath the insensitivity and he knew that if he opened his eyes, they would return. It was a particularly beneficial quality of a dream trance, for it provided Eragon with a sense of deeper peace and serenity.

In this state, Eragon could also perceive Saphira's mind under a thin veil that momentarily separated them. Saphira's mind felt incoherent and vague most of the time- like his. Although through their united link, Eragon could glimpse snippets of strange dragon dreams. Often Saphira dreamed of chasing her prey and flying in the glorious skies.

Throughout the fifty years as a mentor and lead Dragon Rider in Alalea, Eragon had found the dream-trance rest very soothing. And, as advised by one of the older Eldunarya long ago, Eragon had enchanted spells around his seemingly sleeping form, preventing sounds from penetrating his sense of hearing, although at the same time, also acted as a protection ward to warn him of any one approaching him. Eragon had found the silence provided him with better rest and as he did not entirely fall into slumber every time, he also used the time to meditate. The frequent practice had honed Eragon's mind to be precise and efficient once he came out of his dream trance. The practice had achieved him one of the most meticulously disciplined minds- even compared to an older elf. However, whilst Eragon was in the trance, he let his thoughts wander, like abandoned leaves on a rippled pond.

Eragon inhaled deeply and slowly, coming awake. From the prickling of his skin and his now sensitive and rigorously practiced sense of surroundings- Eragon felt the sun rising. Normally, he would wake up instantly, not revelling in the warmth of his blanket nor the additional minutes his slumber gained him. But today was special, for today marked exactly fifty years since he and Saphira came to Alalea to live. It was an uplifting yet also poignant thought.

Eragon felt his body thrum into activity as he finally stirred himself.

Like pieces surging back together, Eragon's mind was immediately cocooned into protection and order- as he had been practising for decades. Eragon stood up, leaving the warmth of his blanket and into the refreshing sting of the cold of a new day. Eragon's bedroom was large, although not overly luxurious or extravagant. He was content in his minimal furnishings; a bed- which ultimately what a _bed_room should contain, a table, a chair and a couple of fairths had proven sufficient enough. However, Eragon's study was a different matter.

The study consisted of many paintings, objects and endless books and fairths, all of which Eragon had read over the fifty years residing in Alalea. His study was the biggest room in their distinctly designed tree house- excluding Saphira's.

Saphira had her own room- much to Eragon's initial amusement when they had first built their house on the first few years in Alalea. Initially, Saphira had refused such a "two-legged" comfort as she so termed it- but to Eragon's persistence- she finally agreed. Saphira's room was on the same floor as Eragon's, just located a few steps away from his.

To the untrained eyes, the house had no huge openings for a Dragon to access, although if one knew where to look; they would know that several parts of the house was enchanted with an illusion spell where parts of the wall appeared solid, but was rather in fact, not. A dragon- if they ever flew into these specific enchanted walls, would find themselves inside Eragon and Saphira's home. However, Eragon had fashioned the spell so only Saphira could enter and leave. If any other Rider and dragon dared do so without permission- they would find themselves in an… unpleasant predicament. In addition, from the inside perspective, where these "secret" entrances were located, Eragon and Saphira can clearly see outside.

Garbing himself in a navy blue tunic and dark pants, Eragon made his way around the house. Over the fifty years, Eragon's height had notably increased. Upon arriving in Alalea, his height had been- compared to now; a measly five eleven- and now he was the tallest amongst some of the elves (excluding the Urgals that was) residing in the land at six four. The growth had been a surprise for Eragon, considering that he knew his family had only markedly been around average in height. However, Eragon's hair was still slightly wavy and he always fashioned it fairly short. Eragon never let it grow too long, as it had always blocked his eyes whenever he sparred or trained. Eragon's hair colour had remained mostly dark, but now, it was tinted with a combination of a few shades of dark brown.

Over the years, Eragon's elven features had also altered slightly and had become more pronounced. His ears still remained tapered like an elf's and his brows were slightly slanted but not too much like so. His features appeared graceful for a human, yet rugged for an elf. Eragon's built both retained and maintained its sinewy and lithe form, but it had also remained evidently masculine. His muscles were hardened and toned through his extensive and rigorous training over the years. They rippled dangerously in his swift and yet also graceful movements.

Eragon's broad shoulders- a little wide for an elf but not wide enough for a large human- whittled down into proportionately narrow hips that gave his build robust strength, but also the swift agility of an elf. Eragon's distinct and ultimately very handsome appearance had received numerous admiration and flattery from the females on the land- although Eragon did not return any romantic interest. He would smile modestly and although Eragon had years to practice it, he could never properly hide his embarrassment at their praises. A tint of red would always colour his cheeks and betray him.

Though fifty years was a long time, one can never erase such a properly ingrained trait.

As Eragon finally collected his items and equipment for the day- his magnificent sword Brisingr and various bodily equipment, he made his way to Saphira- whom from their link, he discerned to be still fast asleep. He half-smiled at the mental sight. So gentle she looked, yet when awake, she could be as ferocious as a wild dragon.

Saphira had also grown significantly bigger. Her wings now spanned an impressive several metres longer. Her body, albeit still graceful and streamlined, was also considerably larger. As Eragon observed Saphira's sleeping form, the sun had significantly risen higher on the horizon- discerned by Eragon through the mirage of one of Saphira's secret entrances infront of him.

The sun had cast light on her sapphire scales. Eragon's heart swelled at the beauty of his dragon. Saphira's scales were more magnificent than any colour of jewels and the refraction of the light filled the room with dazzling sapphire hues. Eragon thought it utterly stunning. He smiled as he gently said, _Wake up partner-of-my-heart-and-mind; a brand new day awaits us. _

Saphira uttered a soft growl in response and opened one huge eyelid slowly. A soft plume of smoke jetted from her nostrils. Directly infront of her line of sight, Eragon smiled. _Did you know today marks our fiftieth year here in Alalea, Saphira? _

Gracefully, the sapphire dragon craned her neck back, twitching her wings and body as she stretched. The refractions of light from her movements and her scales caused Eragon to squint slightly. The sun had now gradually risen on the horizon, its warm rays blazing the sea ahead with its stark yellow light. It appeared like a splendid field of gold. Finally completing her stretches, Saphira leaned on her hind legs. The room was huge, but as Saphira rose to her full height, the room seemed to shrink. She smiled- as any dragon would come close to the expression- and responded to Eragon's earlier question with her own, _Is that so? _

_It is so. _Eragon confirmed rather joyfully and leaned against the wall of the room, looking out into the mirage gateway. Although not properly clear, the view of the room overlooking the sea slightly daunted Eragon at that moment. Traces of his smile faded, _it has been fifty years since we left Alagaësia, Saphira. _

Unbidden, Eragon's sadness washed over their link and Saphira regarded him with deep sympathy, _I feel the longing in you to return, little one._

There were no secrets between them and Eragon allowed his admittance to become evident in their link. He sorely missed his home; his _old home_. Although Alalea was the true home of the dragons and their Riders, Alagaësia was Eragon's first home- not to mention, his family and friends still resided there.

However, through the wave of pain, there was a sharper and larger wave- a pain that caused the heart to tighten. Saphira did not need further observance to know what- or more precisely- _who _Eragon had been thinking of that caused the sudden intense anguish.

Although fifty years had familiarised her with the sentiment, Saphira could not help but feel the raw sadness every time at the thought of her Rider in suffering. She had learnt that words could not alleviate her Rider's pain, so she did what she always knew would at least comfort him. She sent him her profound sympathy and encompassed his mental presence with her own, like a mother embracing her child. Eragon responded in kind.

Although letters from loved ones intended for Eragon always arrived with each new Rider who came to live in Alalea- the main bulk of the letters being from Arya, Eragon still felt the unfathomable longing in his heart to hear her voice and see her face as she would if she spoke the words she had written. What they conversed of mainly consisted of discussions of the land- Alalea and Alagaësia's progression, and some notes regarding the inexperienced Riders who had just arrived. Although occasionally they asked of each other's welfare and safety, Eragon felt the distance as well as the years had forced them apart. Still, his feelings for her had never changed nor diminished.

Although Eragon had found a few females since Arya striking and beautiful, the elven princess- or _Queen_ as she was for a recent amount of time Eragon spent with her before he left for Alalea- remained the constant core of his heart. None had captured it like Arya had, nor he had expected anyone to.

And not a day passed in the last fifty years he had not thought of her.

Eragon had suggested on several occasions on their letters to each other that she should visit Alalea sometime, but she had always evaded the question with reasons such as duty over the land. Although Eragon was pained at her refusals, he very well understood her for he was assigned the same enormity of responsibilities over Alalea. It seems as if neither of them will ever truly see each other again- at least, not for another several decades. The thought alone sent Eragon into a spiral of profound despondency.

It was in their mid thirtieth year that Eragon began to consider forgetting about Arya. In the several celebrations they had held on the land, Eragon had even deliberated courting a woman. Although try as he might at every occasion, the face of the woman Eragon approached would always transform into Arya's beautiful face. The illusion always confounded and pained Eragon and he had always chosen to walk away. It seems as if he could not rid of her. She was ubiquitous in his thoughts and Eragon was almost sure that she had taken permanent residence in his heart. And she had- Arya's true name burned heavily in his mind and heart, forever reminding him of the woman he loved and still does…

**Into Her Thoughts**

"_Stay with me-"_

"_I can't Eragon."_

"_Stay with me until the first bend of the river," he whispered hoarsely. A tear rolled down Arya's face. _

_She was so, so torn. _

_Her overwhelming emotions had forced her throat to thicken, so she nodded, her lone tear now accompanied by others that streamed down her face. Everything Arya saw in Eragon's eyes- she had hoped did not reflect too much on hers. After all, she was Arya- cold, ruthless, emotionless. Facades were her forte. Yet, every single one she ever wore and used as a mask diminished in the face of Eragon's anguish and hers. Absolute, raw pain stripped her of any impassive expressions. Everything that showed on her countenance was a reflection of what she truly felt._

_Fírnen's sympathy leaked through their link and as much as Arya cherished his comfort- it did little to ease the pain in her heart. A vague yet nevertheless sense of deep understanding passed between them and Fírnen said softly, _My presence will be a thought away_. Arya could not compose a coherent response, but she sent him her acknowledgement and profound gratitude. Although Fírnen's was now a part of her, Arya was grateful for the little privacy. _

_Taking Eragon's arm, she boarded the ship with him. There was complete silence, their footsteps lost in the night. Arya had forced her walk to slow, cherishing every second that she had with him. Noticing her gradual steps, Eragon too slowed his pace. Arya's heart tightened and just ever so slightly, so did her grip on his arm. Another tear swiftly escaped her. _

_This was what they had both decided- what they wanted. And yet…neither of them seemed to have wanted this. Every part of Arya's entire being screamed, cried, begged to leave with him, to finally live in peace after a hundred years of conflict, turmoil and war. But, she knew, dreaded, deep down that it was not meant to be. _

_As they finally walked to the prow of the ship- just to the side- Arya felt her chest constrict even more. As if it could not have tightened further. She restrained a whimper; Arya had never taken her arm off his. She treasured the warmth and strength his touch gave her. She did not know when she would next feel it. The heart-wrenching thought sent her deeper into a flurry of raw emotions. No matter what inconsequential part of her being wished for it; she did not also know if she would want to feel it from someone else other than _him_. _

_His name burned in her heart: _Eragon. _Arya had stifled a little cry as she saw the first bend of the river just ahead. Deep sadness filled her. Here they were- immortal; thinking their days and lives were endless. _

Yet, time now pursued us_, Arya thought despondently. For the first time in her life, time had actually mattered. _

_The waters were silent and flat- undisturbed and at peace. Like the surface of the sea, Arya's exterior was calm… but it was merely the eye of the storm. Inside, a furious battle raged on. A torrent of emotions, words screaming to be spoken and feelings pleading to be declared clashed violently within her. For another first time in her existence, she was at a complete loss of what to say or do. But, as much as she wanted this, as much as she _absolutely, utterly and unconditionally _wanted this; Arya's sane- or insane- part of her kept dragging her back to reason and duty. _Damn him for this!_ Arya exclaimed in her thoughts, torn between yelling at him, and yet at the same time, hold him close until the sun rose and set._

_And for everyday that would have followed. _

_Arya's chest constricted to the point of near unbearable pain. The first bend of the river had finally arrived. Eragon turned to her, his eyes- as bright as diamonds, yet also tinted with warm brown- gazed upon her with an unfathomable, burning intensity. Eragon's voice was thick, sending waves of profound emotion crashing through her. Arya knew what he was going to say- she felt it in her mind and heart. It soared at the mere thought of hearing those words. But how can it fly when it was slowly breaking into a million pieces? _

_Arya bit back a small whimper, restraining the anguish and pain to escape her lips. She was trying so hard to hold herself together. _Don't you dare break_, she warned herself. _

_She was failing._

"_Arya…I," Eragon began gently…_

_But- as much as she desired, _needed_ to hear those words, Arya forced herself to stop him. To stop him before he won the game they had both been playing for a long while. And, it was a dangerous game- for the price was their hearts. Arya's was on the line. All it would have taken were those three damned words. _

_So, she gently placed three of her fingers upon Eragon's lips and held them there until his eyes locked with hers. She wanted to say those three words. Those three words that would both shatter their worlds; those three words that they both desired and yearned to hear; those three words that _Arya _wanted_ _to hear. _

_But… she could not. It would break her too much. A deep, unfathomable grief swept through her, searing Arya's heart with absolute and raw pain. She gasped and then inhaled shakily. Eragon's eyes were heart-breaking glimmers under the moonlight. Those soft hazel brown eyes were gentle, delicate. But, his gaze soon turned into a scorching star. Inferno sparked within her body, igniting the passion and… love she had for him. Arya had never wanted anything so bad, so desperately. Eragon looked at her a little longer- he knew the answer, but they both wanted to see who would break it. _

_Arya conceded. _

_They could not. She_ could not.

Perhaps in time_… and when that time arrives, Arya would pour out all her love to him. Within herself, she resigned with heavy defeat. In that moment, she realised she had lost the battle. Her heart shattering into a million pieces, she whispered gently, "Farewell, Eragon Shadeslayer."_

_Arya could endure long and exhausting runs, yet one measly step took every ounce of her strength. She held his gaze- the burning, the intensity, the raw pain remained between them. It needs not to be voiced; it was simply there, out in the open. The gaze was intimate- Arya felt as if she was baring his soul. And hers. She was both terrified and thrilled by it. Arya strongly resisted the urge to take back her step and run into his arms…_

_Instead, she raised her right hand to the sky. Another tear streamed down her face. She forced a small smile, but failed. Eragon saw this and returned the same expression she wore. Arya saw the pain contorted his features and his lips had set in a tight line. Tears rolled unashamedly down his face and that was enough to deliver the final blow to her heart. There was nothing more painful than a broken heart. She felt the raw pain shudder through her entire being and it was beyond incomparable to any emotion she had ever felt. _

_Arya felt the wind around them. Fírnen swooped down and she caught his claw. The force took Arya upwards- away from Eragon. He held her gaze as she hovered above the ship, never wavering against her stare. Arya saw his tears- still diamond clear- glistened under the melancholy moonlight. As distance increased between them, so did her pain. She finally lost his gaze and he, hers. But she continued to stare at his outline on the ship, where she could see he still remained frozen, unmoving. Until they were far away, enough that she could no longer see him, Arya finally closed her eyes. _

_Somewhere, she heard singing. She felt deeply attached to the words, and although she thought the melody beautiful, the lyrics sent her further into a state of unreserved torment;_

_Away, away, you shall fly away  
>And never return to me. <em>

_As Arya listened to the words, felt the melody interweave within her, as if embracing her- she finally succumbed to the pain. It engulfed her in one fierce wave, rendering her speechless, helpless and hopelessly powerless. But through the intense tumult, Arya felt a clear light piercing through the fog and storm of anguish. A single thought of him and with everything she was feeling and she had, she poured her intent to the words as she whispered:_

_Eragon's True Name. _

_She uttered it ever so gently, ever so softly, letting the breeze carry it, hoping that far away Eragon will feel a part of her with him. _

_A mere second later, Arya felt a shudder run through her body. A delicate touch; a gentle, intimate caress. In the soft silence of the night, Arya heard her name, her True Name. It wrapped her entire being, encompassing every corner, every deep confines of her mind that no one ever reached nor dared to. It was intimate beyond anything she had expected, as if their souls had touched. She treasured the feeling. And that moment- that single extraordinarily beautiful and fleeting moment- she would remember for eternity. _

_[...]_

…And ever since their goodbyes at the lonely edges of the river, Eragon had never once uttered her True Name. He dared not.

But, as the fiftieth-year mark burned strongly in his mind, Eragon considered. He wanted to say her name, feel the words roll of his tongue in a soft cadence. It was not merely for the sake of saying her True Name, but also, Eragon was ever curious- as was his rooted nature- to see if Arya had remained the same person she was. Fifty years might not have been very long for an immortal, but Eragon knew that it was enough time to change someone's True Name- whether intentionally or not.

Eragon sighed- caught at the thought of thinking of Arya _again_. He truly did not know how to rid of her. Fate pushed them apart, yet at the same time, it seemed to want them together. Eragon _almost _smiled. Would he be doomed to a future where he had her in his heart, but not beside him? It was a daunting thought, but one Eragon also- albeit sadistically- hoped to be true.

After all, he only wanted Arya. _Only her_.

Eragon shook his head again. It was still the beginnings of a new day and what was his head in?

_In a cloud that has been wandering the skies too long, _Saphira said with some slight amusement. Yet, Eragon immediately saw the truth in her words.

Still, Eragon smiled and asked gently, _how can you tolerate it, Saphira? In every waking and fading moment, she wanders my mind. _

Saphira had moved from her previous position minutes ago and she was now looking out into the open sea ahead with Eragon. They stood side by side. _I would say that in a way, she has become a part of us, _said Saphira softly, _I do not blame you, nor do I want any guilt to befall you little one because she has done so. I understand how you feel for her. _A small pause. _But the blame of not thinking of your beautiful and majestic dragon all the time falls heavily on you. _

Not expecting the amusing comment, Eragon laughed. A whole-hearted, carefree laugh. He responded with the same level of mirth, _I apologise, o-magnificent one. I shall keep thy thought in thine head for every moment in eternity. _

Laughing together, both Rider and Dragon felt jovial at their exchanged jesting. The fifty years together had brought them even closer and Eragon always cherished his dragon's company.

Eragon inhaled deeply. _So, a new day awaits us. And not only that- today is also a significant day for us. What say you on how we begin it?_

Saphira held her neck back in a swift movement and in response to Eragon's question; she roared joyfully, _we fly!_

* * *

><p><em><strong>ExA muse song for this chapter<strong>__:_

_And the shadow of the day  
>Will embrace the world in grey<br>And the sun will set for you_

_-Shadow of the Day by Linkin' Park._

~Rocket


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 - To Be A Rider  
><strong>

Shafts of sunlight pierced through the cluster of clouds, the rays casting a bright light over the land. The vivid scenery signified a new day over Alalea. The air was cool and crisp- refreshing and revitalizing. It stung the flesh lightly, like a cold morning kiss. It was so as the autumn solstice began a week ago. The very hot days of summer had gradually disappeared, replaced by a light cool ambience which Eragon and Saphira both very much favoured. It was the perfect condition for training… and most especially- _flying_.

A holler echoed throughout the skies, followed by a mighty roar. Soon after- in her vivid and majestic descent- Saphira emerged from the clouds. Like the rarest sapphire jewels, Saphira's scales shone in their brilliance, reflecting dazzling light and producing the most beautiful sight. Eragon shouted with zest as Saphira began to plummet to the ground with relentless and frighteningly unwavering speed- her wings tucked into her sides. Although many years had passed Eragon- in flight, in the skies- he always felt like the boy he was when he first flew on Saphira. There were no feelings comparable to the sight from above- nor the elation it delivered as a sense of wonderful weightlessness influenced his body.

Saphira resumed her dive; appearing like a dart shooting from the blue, her streamlined shape allowing her to gather more speed. Eragon continued to shout incoherently, thrill and excitement coursing through. Air rushed through him, filling him the essences of a new day.

As Saphira dangerously approached the ground, she unfolded her voluminous wings like a ship releasing its sails and the wind caught her flight. Like a wave, she dipped from the ground and up, her wings carrying her upward. Eragon beamed, exhilaration flowing through his veins. It was an incredible feeling- the rush, the adrenaline, the joy.

Saphira flew for a few more minutes before she began to make her descent. She circled Du Skulblaka Breaol below them, her large form casting a slight shadow on the ground as she lost more altitude. At the start of a new day, Eragon could already see several of his pupils scampering below, heading off to their lessons and training. Although Eragon was ultimately in charge of the Dragon Riders, he had deemed the older Elves capable and acceptable to teach the young ones important and key concepts of the art of magic, swordsmanship and meditation. And, with the help of the Eldunarya- whom were all mainly located in the main hall- were available for advice for the young Riders. However- suffice to say- not all dragons deigned to answer or even talk at times.

Throughout the fifty years, Eragon had passed around nine and forty Riders. Although Eragon had originally left two eggs with Arya when he left Alagaësia, he had sent another eight and forty. Ultimately, there should be two and fifty Riders in current existence (including him and Murtagh Morzansson, Eragon's half—brother). In the halls of Du Skulblaka Breaol, within the alcoves some of the Eldunarya were kept, were the remainder of a hundred and ninety seven dragon eggs. After much deliberation and council with some of the Elves on the land, Eragon had thought it sensible to keep the rest from hatching. Dragons and their Riders kept lands in peace; but what use of a great many of them when the lands already were?

Not to mention, too many dragons in a land where originally no animals were harmed or _eaten_ proved to be a rather significant issue with the Alalean Elves. However, their leader Celebriän had gradually agreed. It was very difficult- Eragon noted- to settle in the land as Alalean elves were slightly different from their kin in Alagaësia; they were slightly less open minded and yet also stricter in their practices- such as not eating meat. So, it was rather difficult for them to develop an instant liking to the dragons, which on the contrary, had a rather strong liking to their food. However, over the years, the Alagaësian elves had managed to persuade their kin to view the dragons the same as they. Eventually, the dragons and their Riders and the Alalean elves moved from just tolerating each other to becoming friends. Now, the residents and the Riders lived in peace.

The much older Riders- Riders who have been learning and residing on the land for more than fifteen to twenty years- could return to Alagaësia if they so desired. Of course, most of the Riders chose to return and visit Alagaësia. Ismira too, had done so- after much of Eragon's persuasion that it had gradually formed into an order. Ismira had been reluctant to return to Alagaësia. Eragon felt great affection for his niece when she had suggested that she stay with him. In Ismira's exact words, _"You don't have any family here, Uncle. It does not bother me to delay my return to see father and mother if it means staying with you for another few years."_ When she had uttered this, Eragon had felt so deeply touched that he did not respond for a while to Ismira, but rather, he embraced her with such force that her niece had to protest.

However, although it comforted Eragon to know that Ismira truly regarded him as family- he could not keep her. It would devastate Katrina and Roran if their precious daughter did not return as they expected. Eragon had said gently to her, "_There may come a time when your father, mother, you and I will properly reunite together as family, Ismira. I do sorely wish to see them again._"

Ismira- although she had been twenty by the time she completed her first phase of Dragon training, had come close to expressing a pout. A proper and young child's pout. Eragon had smiled at the sight and like the way he used to do so on her first year on the land- when she had only been five and ten- he had tousled her hair in an affectionate manner. The action had resulted in Eragon receiving a gentle slap on the arm from her niece.

Eragon remembered her departure; Ismira boarding the ship- the very same vessel that he and the other elves had used to travel to Alalea. Her dragon, Latheria flew above with Saphira; scarlet and sapphire had streaked the sky as they soared above. Latheria- in a sense- mirrored Ismira's personality. She was the perfect dragon for his niece. Both he and Saphira loved the two dearly. Although Saphira regarded every dragon as family, she viewed Latheria more favourably than the rest of the dragons- very much like Eragon to Ismira. For a while, it was the only _true _family Eragon had on the land.

When Ismira had left for Alagaësia; she had remained there for just a little over a year.

Throughout that time, Eragon had missed her jest and her company dearly. It reminded Eragon how much family meant to him. Then, since her first return to Alagaësia, Ismira had only returned to Alalea several times- but her stays were brief, for Ismira wished to spend time with her mother and father as they both neared old age. Although Eragon had intoned a spell in Roran and Katrina's rings that significantly slowed their ageing- in a couple of decades, they would begin to feel the strains of old age.

Eragon hoped that one day he had a reason to return to the land he once called home. Duty kept him in Alalea: an obligatory and such important duty that he could not dare to abandon in exchange for a seemingly trivial reason such as his happiness. After all, he regarded duty above anything else. The thought had gradually drummed into him after several years.

Throughout the time of Eragon's deliberation, Saphira had found an appropriate landing spot – one was not overly difficult to find as Alalea was full of open spaces. Not to mention that the residents on the land had deliberately marked evident dragon landing areas for Riders and their dragons. Saphira touched the ground with a soft thud, her landing graceful and elegant. Eragon gently leaped off his saddle and landed on the grass. He looked at Saphira and patted her snout. _You were faster at the dive today, _remarked Eragon, notably impressed.

Saphira, as such was a dragon's nature, tilted her head in a pleased manner. _Thank you little one. One day, I may just be able to achieve a dive so steep and rapidly pull myself up. _

Inwardly, Eragon slightly dreaded. Throughout the years, Saphira had been trying to perfect a particular flight manoeuvre- one that required her to open her wings in time just as she would be about to hit the ground- several metres, to be precise. And, every time they had done so, Eragon was definitely certain Saphira came closer and closer to achieve her target.

A little over ahead of their landing designation, Eragon spotted five Riders in meditation. Their dragons were nowhere to be seen- though Eragon knew if they so called, they would appear within a moment's notice. After all, he had taught them that a dragon and their Rider must always be in contact with each other.

_I caught sight of Carzthur, Fildur and Belrath in my flight; they are hunting. As for Isadarath and Tagmar, I sense them nearby_, informed Saphira. Eragon acknowledged the information and returned his gaze to the five Riders ahead. Two elves- Aráthiel, Rider of Isadarath and Faine, Rider of Fildur, one dwarf- Karun, Rider of Belrath and two Urgals- Glavthorn, Rider of Tagmar and Igabal, Rider of Carzthur. All were just settling into the first stages of Rimgar. Although, Dwarves and Urgals had a different way of "meditation"- they did not properly execute the moves the Rimgar required, but they came close to the positions. However, at first, meditation to both races was altogether nonexistent. But, since they had become Riders, Eragon had implemented that they should do some form of meditation to improve their body's strength, agility and natural capability.

Therefore, Eragon had first suggested the Rimgar- the Elves' stretches and practises before a battle or to improve their flexibility, balance and posture.

Initially, Eragon had found the Dwarves and Urgals' attempts at the art rather… entertaining. But throughout the years, both races had practiced it rigorously in order to achieve better stature composure (although, the Dwarves and Urgals had a slightly altered routine to practice, rather than the proper exercise of the Rimgar). Normal dwarves were stocky and short, but Dwarf Riders- affected by the pact Eragon had helped to seal- had become less stocky than their kin and also slightly taller. However, you could still not mistake them for any other race, for their traditional and prominent beards evidently declared their race. On the other hand, Urgal Riders were also affected by the bonding pact. Like the Dwarves, they also gained a more slender physique- though by human standards, they still appeared very large. However, both Urgal and Dwarf Riders- much to their frequently announced blatant relief- did not gain tapered ears. Eragon- though he did not voice it- agreed. Pointed ears for either race would result in… a rather interesting appearance.

Eragon began to walk to the area of the Riders; _Do as you please, Saphira. In an hours' time however, you will need to return and teach _your _lesson_, said Eragon.

Saphira inclined her head; _I have already hunted the night before. I will stay here and wait for the hour to pass until the dragons' two-legged Riders finish and we can teach our first lesson. _

Eragon nodded.

As Eragon approached the Riders' training area, he glimpsed Glavthorn and Carzthur – the two Urgals slightly unstable on their Rimgar positions. Karun- the Dwarf Rider appeared more composed than the two, but still, he did not have the grace and poise of the two elves beside him. Aráthiel and Faine- both females- stretched impressively as a rope would bend over objects. The elves' natural build for agility and litheness proved true to their actions. Eragon remarked on the Riders' capability, making mental notes on each Rider's progress. These five were on their third year of Rider training; the most recent of the groups.

The other Riders who still resided in Alalea had ultimately passed their first phase of training. However, some still hovered about- as was their obligatory duty however- learning from scrolls available to be read from the great library in Du Skulblaka Breaol. Occasionally, Eragon still taught classes, ensuring that they improve and develop their skills further.

Eragon stood a few metres away, silent and stealthy, not disturbing the Riders' concentration. However, the Riders took notice of his presence and momentarily halted their stretches to incline their heads to him in respect and greet him in the Ancient Language, addressing him by his respected title, "Ebrithil."

Eragon nodded and smiled slightly, returning the greeting to each one. Then, he gestured for them to continue. As Eragon stood a little to the side, he still truly marvelled the utmost respect and admiration his students had for him- though some Riders he had taught were considerably older than him. Describing the experience strange would be quite simply an understatement. However, Eragon's earlier years had weighed down on him heavily. He had only been eight and ten when he defeated Galbatorix, the tyrant king and ruler of Alagaësia. No one his age had been recorded in history to manage the feats he had achieved. It was not an immodest thought; but rather, it was a contemplation of his reality. Then, Eragon felt the weight on his shoulders, felt it as if it truly were a physical burden.

He sighed.

But no; the hopes and faith of a land did not rest on his shoulders now. Although the responsibility as the Head Dragon Rider was an enormous and significant role, Eragon felt as if it were feather-light compared to the pressure that had been inevitably put on his shoulders several decades ago.

Eragon transferred his intense gaze to the woods surrounding the expanse on which they occupied. The beginning of the day was silent, save for the soft whistling of the light morning breeze. However, if Eragon desired so, he could fleetingly send his presence through the nature- an incredible ability he had acquired and mastered over the years- to perceive the land's activity.

Through the remarkable ability, Eragon was able to discern that a minute's fly away, the sparring area was beginning to bustle with activity. He could also sense the consciousness of the other residents who were nearby. Initially, it had been an unsettling practice, but Eragon had gradually acquainted himself with the feeling of fleetingly brushing the minds of those whom he sought. Eragon was meticulously transitory in his mental touch, for he did not want to alarm, shock or surprise them.

After scanning his surroundings, Eragon transferred his gaze to the woods yet again. His eyes always settled on a particular group of trees ahead of him. Eragon briefly wondered why. Then, he realised.

They were pine trees. Eragon smiled without humour. The smell of it tantalized him; as if teasing him.

Eragon had conceded admittance within himself a few years ago- he was truly insane. He was _still_ mooning over a woman- who in all most probability did not have a romantic interest in him- every passing day for the last five decades.

But he could not help it.

Everywhere, there were always reminders of her; of Arya. It seemed as if there was nothing Eragon could do about it. She truly possessed his every waking and fading thought. He constantly reminded himself that it was because he missed her so, but when did the feeling of _just _missing someone become a sentiment that came close to unbearable? What he felt for her, what he felt for Arya- Eragon had concluded- were utterly irrevocable and unconditional. Although Eragon kept reminding himself that Arya may have found someone else- much to Eragon's profound pain- _he would still love her._ He would still love her no matter what she felt.

Eragon's heart tightened at the thought.

Then, at that moment, he looked at the sky- the direction of his gaze settling on the west. It always ended up like so whenever he observed the skies; for it was the direction his heart longed to pursue. Eragon yearned so much to follow what his heart was _begging _him to go to. As of late, images and thoughts of Arya Drottning, Arya Shadeslayer; _Arya _haunted his thoughts and dreams. At the thought of her struck him again, Eragon refrained the strong urge to briefly rake his hands through his hair.

He. Needed. To. See. Her.

Otherwise, Eragon sincerely believed that his mind and heart may explode soon. Eragon smiled inwardly without mirth. She wasn't even around, but she was already driving him crazy. At that train of thought, Eragon felt a slight mental nudge from Saphira and in an amused tone, she remarked, _you were already along that road ever since you saw her, fool. _

Eragon grimaced; guilty at being caught _again _for thinking about Arya and at the truth in Saphira's words. He gave the image of shrugging helplessly; _I cannot rid myself of this feeling, Saphira. Instead of fading, it seems to grow stronger. I cannot help but feel that maybe… just perhaps it could be fate urging me to see her again. _

Saphira had no response for her Rider, though she felt the deep longing and hopeful emotion run through their link. Although the fifty years away from Arya had disciplined Eragon's impulsive reactions if she were around, it still did not numb his love and affection for her. It was there- embedded like an unwavering splinter in his heart. For every passing moment he breathed, it hurt not being with her.

A human with a broken heart was but a passing sentient- an immortal with one, however, was eternal suffering.

Eragon's line of thought broke as Aráthiel- one of the female Elven Riders approached him. Aráthiel was fifty- a little younger than Eragon, but he found that if they were both human, they would be around the same age. Aráthiel had dark, midnight hair that was usually left untied. However, today, she had chosen to pull it back into a long ponytail, making her tapered ears appear even more prominent. Aráthiel was a lovely and beautiful elf. She was very much one of the most sought-after elf amongst the male Riders- human and elf on Alalea.

However, much to Eragon's surprise one day- Saphira had indicated that Aráthiel may have a _romantic interest_ in him. Eragon had almost fallen out of his study chair when Saphira had said so. But, indeed to his surprise, Eragon had paid additional but subtle attention to her over the days that had followed and true to Saphira's words, Eragon observed her way of manner and actions indicated that she indeed held a degree of romantic interest in him. Although it was not the first flattering romantic interest Eragon had received over the fifty years on the land, it was certainly one of the most surprising as Aráthiel seemed like an elf who did not involve herself with romantic relationships. At least, that was what Eragon deduced from her performance and concentration in classes.

Unfortunately- like all the past and flattering interests Eragon had received- his heart simply did not hold the same sentient.

Aráthiel smiled briefly, if not a little hesitantly, as she reached him, her soft dark blue eyes a gleam in the sunlight. "Ebrithil, may I spar with you?" She spoke in the Ancient Language, as all the residents- save for the Urgals and Dwarves who were still learning- spoke fluently with.

Eragon inwardly reprimanded himself for not beginning the class sooner. Their lesson today was sparring; Eragon was going to teach them vital and essential qualities of a great swordsman- skills his great mentors, Brom, Oromis and Glaedr had long ago taught him.

Eragon inclined his head at Aráthiel's request, "Of course."

To the rest of the Riders, Eragon gestured for them to halt their exercises and gather in a semi circle formation- a safe distance away from their invisible sparring arena. Faine, Karun, Carzthur and Igabal all settled into their places and stood to watch as Eragon and Aráthiel found their ways a few metres away from each other. "Today, I will teach you how to possess the dominancy in combat," Eragon spoke to all of them, his right hand resting on Brisingr's pommel, "I will show you techniques and manoeuvres- much more advanced than the previous combat sessions you have undertaken. This will put you to the test, but if Saphira and I deem you skilled enough, you will proceed into your next class of combat- your fifth and final phase." Eragon paused, "And upon completing your final stage- you will have fully passed your Rider combat training."

The Riders all nodded in acknowledgement and understanding, listening to Eragon intently. Eragon changed his seemingly relaxed stance to a fighting position and unsheathed Brisingr. Eragon could not help but feel pride swell within him as the Riders gazed upon Brisingr with awe. New Riders did not have their Riders' blade yet until they accomplished their full Rider's training and returned to Alagaësia and ask Rhunön- the famous and most renowned elf smith, to forge them one. With the Brightsteel Eragon had found under the Menoa Tree long ago, Rhunön could forge many blades.

Although the Riders in training did not have a proper Rider's sword, they all had blades crafted by the greatest smith on Alalea, an thousand year old male elf- Elendil. From his making, Eragon was amazed to realise that the blades he forged for the Riders were very resilient and formidable. It was not as weak as human making, nor as too thick as the Dwarves' making. Elendil crafted swords based on the Riders' way of fighting and suffice to say- he had not once failed to please the Riders' suitable need. Eragon thought it comparable to Rhunön's work.

As Eragon held Brisingr in the sunlight, its blue hues gave it an ethereal glow that was both dazzling and mesmerizing to look at. Eragon nodded subtly at Aráthiel- an action she easily perceived. By his prompting, Aráthiel too acquired the starting position. "Watch my movements very closely," Eragon said to the Riders on the side, "and watch my eyes; the key will be in my eyes. The lock is the body. Combine the key and the lock- you will see the answer." Eragon said as he inwardly smiled in memory as he recalled the very sentence Glaedr- Oromis' dragon- had said to him in a sparring lesson over fifty years ago. Now here he was, repeating it to his own set of students. How the tables have turned, Eragon thought wryly.

Aráthiel unsheathed her _weapons_- two thin elfin blades. Anticipation and excitement suffused her countenance and Eragon appreciated her enthusiasm. Aráthiel was always willing to prove herself to anyone. Indeed, Eragon thought her one of the best students he had taught over the years. The determination and the intensity of her focus impressed Eragon. He himself was anticipating the spar; for Eragon wanted to revel in the feel of his muscles working and to feel the deadly movements influence his body. Repeating himself quickly and to reiterate to his students, Eragon said, "Remember, watch my movements and my eyes."

And with that, Eragon leapt forward, Brisingr gleaming in the sunlight with energetic delight. Aráthiel too, bounded forward, her jump much more graceful than Eragon's. Their swords met with a resounding clang and they spun away, haste and elegance refining their movements. As Eragon swivelled, he quickly bought Brisingr the other way, using the momentum of the spin to attack his opponent's side. The action was deft and rapid- one that Aráthiel was barely able to block. Toning down his speed and power slightly, Eragon went for an easier tactic offense that matched Aráthiel's level of training.

Eragon sensed the exact moment Aráthiel knew what Eragon was doing. She growled slightly- very slightly that the sound was lost in the dim of the sword clashes. But it was the reaction Eragon desired. From experience, he knew that sympathy tactics and restraining one's self in combat- especially against an elf- would infuriate them. Therefore, it pushed them to be better and faster. And indeed, Aráthiel gained speed and Eragon ever so gradually started to return to his normal pace. He used quick swivels, pivots and attack manoeuvres he had learnt from both Brom, Oromis and of his own making- the combined techniques proving to be a chain of smooth and flowing art. It was beautiful to watch, but deadly to be involved in.

Minutes passed but Eragon knew they felt like an hour to Aráthiel. His swordsmanship was honed to perfection- as it was demanded when Eragon had to confront the tyrant king Galbatorix. A combination of unexpected dodging, parrying and slashing left Aráthiel mostly on a defensive stance, fending Eragon's furious and rapid advances. Their dance was swift, ferocious and deadly. Also, through Glaedr's teachings, Eragon had perfected what his previous mentor had taught him: to know their opponent. Not just by combat, but their personality. What would they do next? From his previous observances of Aráthiel's fighting, he knew her manoeuvres; her favourites and her strengths; her least favourite and her weaknesses.

In addition, from her gentle yet fierce personality and her determination and resilience indicated to Eragon that she would be impulsive and sometimes reckless in her actions. Using all the pieces of information together and against her, Eragon had brought Brisingr five times upon her. Two on the stomach, one on the shoulder and two on her legs; both right and left.

As the sixth hit made contact on her neck, Eragon stepped away. Exhaustion barely affected him. Aráthiel stood- barely- panting, clutching her two swords by her sides. She gazed at Eragon with respect, but also frustration. Eragon knew how badly she had wanted to defeat him. As he let Aráthiel catch her breath, Eragon addressed his other students, "So, what had my movements and my eyes suggested?"

Faine spoke, "Your eyes watched her movements closely, but you did not go for the obvious openings, Ebithril; rather, you manoeuvred your way around, making your opponent work harder by blocking that attack instead."

Eragon nodded, "Good." As Eragon asked more questions and the Riders all answered correctly, he communicated with Saphira. _Their progress is faring well, _Saphira noted.

_Yes, they are improving, _agreed Eragon. As the day wore on and the lesson finally came to an end, Eragon dismissed them, sending them to a few hours of rest before their next lesson of the day which was magic. Karun, Faine, Carzthur and Igabal all left- save for Aráthiel who had decided to remain.

As Eragon picked up his water skin and pack, he glanced at Aráthiel who made his way over to him. For an elf, she seemed awkward and self-conscious, her actions suggesting so. "Do you have any questions, Aráthiel?" asked Eragon as he stood up. He was a good inches taller than her but despite her initial awkwardness, Aráthiel seemed unfazed by Eragon's height.

"If I may request so, Ebrithil, may I challenge you to another round of sparring?" asked Aráthiel. Determination burned intensely in her dark blue eyes, her posture also mirroring her countenance. In lessons, Eragon had endeavoured to minimise the additional attachment between the two of them, for he feared he may distract her from her studies. In a transitory moment, the situation with Aráthiel reminded him of his once impulsive and youthful infatuation with Arya.

However, Eragon admired her resolve to succeed; strangely it reminded him of his own.

Since her arrival on Alalea with her dark blue scaled female hatchling Isadarath- whom was now conversing with Saphira- she had developed a discernible inclination to Eragon- one he evidently could not miss. Throughout her three years on the land, Aráthiel had indicated and hinted romantic interest, but Eragon chose to ignore it in a rather seemingly clueless manner. However, Aráthiel was difficult to dissuade. Eragon briefly wondered what females saw in him. He was not aloof, but he was not terribly involved with the other Riders either- save for Ismira.

_Perhaps it's your irresistible charm and princeling appearance_, Saphira interjected amusedly. Eragon slightly reddened, but he suppressed his reaction swiftly. He ignored Saphira's remark- though it was not an insult. He transferred his attention to Aráthiel, who had been gazing at him with slight curiosity. And- Eragon quickly caught- an expression of tentativeness.

Eragon cleared his throat, indicating with Brisingr, "I accept, Aráthiel."

A smile formed her lips so quickly; Eragon was influenced to also return the smile. He liked Aráthiel- he even thought her beautiful- but none, absolutely _no one _could compare to Arya. Aráthiel had no hold over him like Arya had.

…_and still has, _corrected Saphira. Eragon grumbled inwardly at Saphira's _yet _another mental interruption. Saphira received his feeling and a trail of amusement emanated from her.

Aráthiel assumed her starting position, her fortitude locking in her eyes. Eragon's gaze met hers; brown and dark blue and the air seemed to cackle around them with renewed intensity. Aráthiel was a proficient swordsman, but she could not ever- at least not in another several decades or if ever- to match Eragon's efficiency and adroitness in sparring. Saphira presented the answer to him, _anything to spend time with you, Eragon_. Saphira seemed to sigh, _if you do not wish to lead her on, little one, you must tell her. _

Eragon acknowledged the fact… _but I have. _He was rather hopeless with women.

_Ignoring advances will not deter a female_, Saphira answered, and Eragon knew the verity of her words.

Eragon sighed, _I will. It's just that… _he trailed, wondering himself what was preventing him from declining Aráthiel's advances. Save for the master-student bond they shared- Eragon could not hope to distract her from her studies. Saphira seemed to shrug mentally, _duty does not immediately call upon them, nor is there the same weight on their shoulders that was burdened upon you before. On the contrary, little one, you are distracting her by _not _accepting her advances. _

As silence ensued, Eragon realised that Saphira's reason for pursuing the topic was because she hoped- or a little part of her- hoped that he would finally move on from Arya. The thought tugged at Eragon. It was a rational thought, but then again, the heart was never sensible. Otherwise if it was, he would not have suffered for the last five decades, _still _missing and _still _loving the same woman.

As Eragon undertook his fighting stance- like the stance his heart assumed as he thought of Arya, he uttered his next words with complete conviction; _my feelings will never change for _her_. _

**To Be A Queen_  
><em>**

My feelings will never change_, Eragon uttered with certainty… _

Arya' awoke to Eragon's voice in her head, his gentle, pained voice. The same tight grip enclosed her heart as Eragon's face drifted around her mind. Sitting up from her bed, Arya rubbed her temples. She sighed at her vulnerability- a weakness she only permitted to take possession of her mind and heart when she was alone. Fírnen nudged Arya's mind slightly, a greeting.

Swiftly eradicating the thoughts of Eragon from her mind, Arya opened her mental self to her partner-of-heart-and-mind to her dragon. _Good morning, Fírnen, _said Arya warmly as she donned on her scarlet tunic over her sleeping shirt. Arya stood up to walk over her balcony. In her black leggings and tunic, she felt the coldness of the crisp autumn air seep into her skin. She revelled the refreshing feeling. As she reached her balcony, stepping out into the first rays of sunlight- loud beating of wings surrounded her. Fírnen hovered in front of her, his dazzling green scales shining on Arya's eyes. She squinted slightly, but as always, the beauty of Fírnen's scales never ceased to amaze her. It truly was magnificent.

_Let us fly, Arya! _Fírnen said eagerly, his excitement leaking into Arya. She smiled, understanding that the "_cool breath of Mother Nature pleased Fírnen's scales". _ Arya shivered at the crisp cold that blanketed Du WeldenVarden, but she too, was eager to fly this morning.

_I will join you in a minute, _said Arya as she returned back into her bedroom. _What will my people say when they see their Queen in barely an attire? _Arya thought with a hint of amusement, Fírnen's positivity affecting her to a profound level.

However, it could not reach the dark hollow in her heart that was never healed from Eragon's departure. As soon as the thought eased into her mind, Arya quickly subdued it, forcing it to retreat to the deep confines of her mind. Throughout the decades, she had been in worse conditions- but she was not one to be overwhelmed. Arya had practiced her mental control and discipline over thoughts of Eragon.

As Arya clasped on a thicker layer of clothing over her tunic, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror. The sadness that suffused her countenance astounded her. She feared if not for Fírnen, she would be lost in her own misery. It was ridiculous. Her helplessness and powerlessness; and what, over a man she had not seen for fifty years? Arya's resentment was aimed at both herself and Eragon- though she did know that it was not Eragon's fault. After all, she had been the one to decline. Ultimately, her sadness was her own fault. She refused happiness in exchange for duty. _They _both had. A part of her hoped that Eragon had stayed- not to abandon his duty, but to have found another way around it. But, the resentment returned back to herself- why had _she _not done so?

Constantly conflicted within herself, Arya quelled the thoughts, silencing her mind with authority. Arya grabbed her sword, Támerlein, which had been re-forged to suit Arya's fighting style, and her diadem- which had been slightly altered to remain securely on Arya's head when she flew on Fírnen. Although Arya would have preferred not to wear it, duty required her to – and she was not one to refuse an obligatory inclination.

_The day wears on swiftly, _said Fírnen with a hint of impatience, _in a little over an hour; you will need to meet with the council. _

Arya sighed as Fírnen reminded her. The council demanded her presence for this discussion. Arya had already dismissed several in the past. She was- Arya thought- the most aloof Queen they have had. However, that quality was always swiftly overlooked when Arya took control of discussions. Throughout the years, she had gained a presence of unreserved influence and certainty about her that even some of the older elves could not deny. Her suggestions and her answers to discussions always, if not mostly, always resulted in favorable outcomes. Regarding the other races of Alagaësia, Arya was also more than competent in conferring with them for she had been an Ambassador for her people for nigh on twenty years before. Even deliberating with Urgals was easy to grasp, if one knew their way of thinking. Out of all the races in Alagaësia, Urgals were the easiest to comprehend, for they were primitive and simple creatures. Compared to the intricacy and complexity of the elves' way of words and capricious nature, the Urgals were but children.

Arya travelled Alagaësia frequently, for her position as the "unofficial" Head Rider- in position of Eragon's place whilst he was away- demanded her presence in many places. There had been little conflict in the land, and if they were, they had been so trivial that only the race's leader and their council would be able to solve the problem. However, as for matters of resources, supplies and goods, Arya has had to often travel to Surda- in which Orrin's castle was situated or Tronjheim where Orik, King of the Dwarves resided or Carvahall Castle, where Roran- Lord of the Spine and Carvahall resided or Ilirea Castle- as the city had been gradually renamed by its rulers, Nasuada and Murtagh. Never had the Council of Alagaësia- the council of each of the races Leaders, been held in Ellesméra or Nar Garzvhog's or King Grimmr Halfpaw of the Werecats Halls.

The Council of Alagaësia convened once a month to discuss the matters of the land and their people. The system was effective as each leader discussed amicably- save sometimes for King Orrin- now in his old age- who could still be boisterous. However, much had been to Arya's surprise, Nasuada retained a youthful appearance- a little past her mid 20s, but since Murtagh and his dragon Thorn's reappearance after the five years' seclusion in the Spine, he and Nasuada had taken each other for mates. It had caused much shock and surprise throughout the land- especially the leaders such as Orik and Orrin, _much especially_ Orik who had on numerous occasions threatened to sever Murtagh's head, but to Arya's admiration of union which had initially surprised her as well, the couple did not break. On the contrary, through the rife, Nasuada and Murtagh had been brought even closer. To Arya, their bond was beautiful to behold. There had been countless of meetings held by the Council of Alagaësia and not once had the hostility between Orik, Orrin and Murtagh receded. But, all the leaders had gradually tolerated their differences and regarded each other civilly in the meetings.

As Arya finally gathered her possessions, she headed to the balcony. Fírnen immediately emerged from the trees below as Arya leapt from the balcony and onto the saddle. As Fírnen flew away from the balcony- Arya observed the land below them. Arya's "formal" residence was in the heart of _Ellesméra_, Tialdarí Hall- the ancestral home of Arya's family. From above, Arya could see the fragments of the various gardens which inhabited Tialdarí Hall. A pained smile tugged at Arya as she saw several glints of gold as the Golden Lilies Eragon sang for her long ago, greeted her with their glimmering beauty. When she had first brought one of the Golden Lilies from the expanse from which Eragon had sang them from, they had been the centre of many of the Elves' wonder. They regarded the flower with astonishment for they had magically appeared in a large number after Arya had planted one. However, no one knew that the lilies were composed by Eragon- or Eragon Kingkiller as he had been renamed amongst the land.

As Fírnen soared to the cerulean sky, Arya inhaled the morning air. The cool and crisp sensation washed over her. She felt at peace as she observed the Ellesméra below them, the tops of the trees obscuring most of the huts Arya could still discern from above.

Fírnen flew for the good solid portion of the hour, reaching the three great hilltops on the fringes of Du WeldenVarden before he began to fly back to the centre of Ellesméra where the council awaited for Arya. When they reached the halls on Ellesméra- Fírnen flew to the entrance that was specifically designed for a dragon and their Rider. It was an entrance where both the Rider and dragon could enter. Arya leapt from her saddle. She unclasped her thicker laying, revealing her royal tunic. Usually, Queens would wear grand dresses to formal councils, but Arya did not trouble herself with such trivialities. She simply wore her dark leggings and her royal tunic, which was stitched with golden threads designed with the emblem of the elves. Arya traced her diadem with her fingertips and she tightened the fastening on Támerlein on her hip. Arya glanced at Fírnen who stood next to her, _Will you stay? _asked Arya; though she already knew the answer.

_Always, _Fírnen responded. Not once had her dragon failed to accompany her through the sometimes dreadfully tedious meetings. Arya gently stroked Fírnen's snout and smiled. Then she took a moment to compose herself before she uttered her name to the entrance. The entrance appeared like a wall of vines, but to elven eyes, they were intricately twisted and roped in a fashion that appeared like a large door- large enough for a dragon to fit through. However, this entrance was only used by a Dragon Rider; the rest of the council used the official entrance, which was situated at the front of the hall. As Arya uttered her name, the vines delicately started to untwist and untangle. They receded to the sides until there was an audible _click_.

The entrance before them opened. Arya sauntered in, her entrance silencing the ushers and talking of the council. The Council of Elves consisted of roughly thirty elves- the head of each family Houses in Du WeldenVarden. However, not all Houses had a representative. Since the vanquishing of the tyrant king Galbatorix, the Council had reduced in number. For a House representative only used to join the Council if they wanted to discuss matters of overthrowing the dark king. Now that the land was free of him, most House representatives found the discussions too trivial to demand their presence.

As Arya walked down the Hall, she felt the pair of eyes of each single elf observe her. An air of authority had graced Arya upon her arrival into the Hall. She walked with the regal posture of a Queen, but also, the gait of a dangerous warrior. It was a slinking, graceful movement- a manner of walking that belied her position as just a "Queen" among her people, but also one of the Elves' most valued warriors. Arya had never been defeated in a sparring match. Only few could match her- one being Eragon.

As Arya took her seat- or to her discomfort- her throne, the Council settled into their seats and all inclined their heads to her, a more effective way of greeting her rather than individually greeting her first in the Ancient Language. The Council was situated in front of Arya, in two tables separated by a relatively large gap in the middle which she had just walked through. On the table on her right sat Lord Däthedr, whom Arya also regarded as her advisor as her mother had. To Arya, he was the next in command of leadership if she should take leave of Du WeldenVarden when she attended other matters all over the land.

Fírnen took residence in an alcove at the other end of the Hall, near the Dragon Rider's entrance. The Council also regarded him with their respect, inclining their heads to them with deep reverence.

Arya surveyed her subjects, and returned each of their nods with her own regal inclination. Inside, Arya tired of the formalities and she desperately wished for the council to end. However, she had to keep a façade, so Arya sat on her throne with exuding confidence and authority. "My people," Arya began, speaking in the Ancient Language, her voice a normal level for conversation as the Hall was designed in a way that one could be heard clearly without the need to shout, "The Council gathers to discuss the matters of the Houses."

And so the Council discussed seemingly trivial matters between them. After an hour or two ebbed away, Arya strained to keep her attention to the matters at hand. Before she decided to cease the discussion, the front entrance began to open. Arya sighed. She knew the company.

Still donning his travelling cloak, Vanir entered the Hall with as much formality and confidence as he could. But Arya could see him falter slightly at the scrutiny of the Council. If the Council had disapproved Arya of one matter, it was the elf who was now walking down the middle of the Hall. The Council had deemed Vanir too young and too impulsive to be the Ambassador of the Elves. But Arya's authority superseded theirs; she had decided that Vanir were fit for the role. Vanir's occasional recklessness made Arya disapprove at times, but ultimately, she saw his burning passion and determination to prove himself otherwise to the Council. Not to mention, Arya had perceived his then barely uncontainable enthusiasm to travel the land- the same qualities that she had held when she had wanted to become an Ambassador. In some ways, Vanir was Arya's student. She had frequently advised him of things he should do and not do in the face of councils and discussions of other races. It was strange however, as he and Arya were around the same age, Arya being a decade older and she was his mentor.

Despite the disapproval of various Council Heads, Vanir had proved competent enough; in knowledge, swordsmanship, decorum and bearing of a proper Ambassador. Or at least, Arya deemed him to be. Some were yet to be convinced. Arya thought that Vanir was not helping his situation; for he _should have_ waited for the next Council conference, not interrupt it. Inwardly, Arya resisted a harsh reprimand. Several metres away from Arya, Vanir bowed and greeted her first in their native tongue. Arya returned the greeting, but his disturbance of the Council was not to be overlooked- as indicated by the Hall's sense of mood.

To appease the majority of the Council's unspoken view and to impress her authority, Arya addressed the young elf, "Ambassador Vanir, disruption of the Council is unacceptable and is not tolerated." Though Arya had not imposed punishment, she knew that being berated like a child would pique any elf's pride, especially male ones like Vanir. That was punishment enough for the young elf for he flinched discernibly. Vanir inclined his head deeply, "I apologize Arya Drottning, but I deliver urgent news."

Arya unconsciously sat straighter in her seat. She gestured for Vanir to continue.

"May I address the council, my Queen?" Vanir asked.

Arya responded, "You may."

The young, dark-haired elf turned slightly to the side, facing the two tables on which the Council Heads were seated, and also to Arya. Vanir began his account by divulging pieces of information and news he had attained from all over the land. Such subjects were that the Urgals had reduced their numbers significantly through another great skirmish within the race, Orrin- Ruler of Surda had been infected with the beginnings of a notorious flu plague and as they speak, his health was greatly diminishing. At this, Arya mentally noted to send some of their best healers to Surda in order to aid the Orrin, but she herself feared that they could do nothing about such matter. If it was indeed the flu plague, even the best Elven healers could not outsmart the workings of Mother Nature. At this, Arya slightly wondered at who would succeed the king. The most obvious option was his son, whom Arya had met on a few occasions. He resembled his father in appearance and action. To Arya, ultimately, Orrin would be succeeded by another Orrin.

Vanir continued on to even lesser trivialities and Arya began to wonder what was the piece of news that held such importance that Vanir had to interrupt the Council. Finally, as Vanir concluded his narration, he addressed Arya directly. "My Queen, I have withheld the most important and gravest news for last." Arya inclined her head for him to continue, a little impatient at Vanir's slight theatrics. "Murtagh Morzansson- mate of Queen Nasuada- Ruler of the Humans has imparted grim news to his Council- in which Ambassadors from each race had been present in. During his seclusion in the Spine and the northern edges of Alagaësia, Murtagh Shur'tugal and his dragon, Thorn feared they had awakened a great evil."

At this, the Council and Arya seemed to jolt from their seats. In any other race's meeting, questions would seemingly fly at the room, addressed to no one in particular, but rather to themselves. But this was a Council of Elves. Composed and dignified, the Council Heads and Arya regarded the news with great interest. No news of evil had reached the land in the last fifty years.

Vanir continued, "In the Red Rider's account of his journey, he and his dragon Thorn had stumbled upon a seemingly great abyss in the northern parts of Alagaësia. At their presence, the abyss had seemingly ruptured and in the Rider's exact words, _"the ground grew black and brittle where we treaded and the air smelled of brimstone. It was a place where the land smelled of poison and the earth quake with frightening force. I remember Umaroth's warning ringing in alarm in my head, yet I could not help but take a step forward, a step into the dark chasm from which no light seemed to penetrate. As my feet touched the ground; shadows of a great terrible number screeched from the Earth; cloaked in_ _otherworldly_ _veils, they rose from the abyss like swift tendrils of the darkest smoke_. _After their arrival into the air, the abyss below us closed with a great tumult and an eerie silence pervaded the land." _

Mirroring Vanir's recent words, an eerie silence dominated the council for a moment.

Lord Däthedr was the first to speak, "If I recall correctly, Murtagh Morzansson had ventured into the northern parts of Alagaësia over forty years ago; why does he tells us this now?"

Vanir responded courteously, "I know not, Lord Däthedr, but a member of the council had asked the very same question, but the Rider himself, did not know. He had imparted to the Ambassadors to inform our leaders and our councils. Ilirea will convene the Council of Alagaësia in two days' time."

At this, the Council fell momentarily silent before the Elves began to talk amongst themselves. Dread filled Arya. Fírnen spoke to her, sharing the same sentiment, _What could it be? _She asked. Fírnen grumbled mentally, _I do not know. But the Red Rider and his dragon should not have disturbed such place. _Arya agreed. She did not know what shadows Vanir nor Murtagh spoke of, but if that was the news indeed, then it did not bade good tidings for the land. If this had occurred over forty years ago, during Murtagh's five year seclusion in the north and having no remembrance of it until of late, then it was truly unsettling news.

Addressing the Council, Arya ordered silence. At her command, the Council ceased their discussions and looked at their Queen. "Thank you for the narration, Vanir. I will travel to Ilirea as soon as possible and converse with the other leaders of Alagaësia. In the gathering, I hope to acquire more information as to what had occurred in Murtagh and his dragon Thorn's journey in the northern parts of the land." She stood up swiftly but gracefully, "Until we learn more about this, I order you to refrain from imparting the news to the rest of our brethren. I will return to Ellesméra as soon as the matter is resolved. This council is dismissed." Vanir and the Council inclined their heads as Arya walked past.

Fírnen moved from his alcove as Arya reached the Dragon Rider entrance. The significant part of Arya dreaded what was to come, but a small part of her- the part that was quickly dominating her feelings toward the matter thought otherwise. A sense of excitement embedded itself within her. _Let us go, _Arya said to Fírnen as they headed for Tialdarí Hall. The flight took less than a minute and Arya leapt from her saddle and onto her wide balcony. Grabbing her pack and her other belongings, Arya was swift and efficient in her movements. Soon, she and Fírnen were flying above Ellesméra and towards the direction of Ilirea.

**By The Three Boulders  
><strong>

The numbed tip of Brisingr pricked Aráthiel's chin. "Dead," Eragon said as he stepped back from her. Sweat filmed Aráthiel's skin, a bright sheen in the sun. She was on the floor, after Eragon's swift leg swept her off the ground. She looked exhausted, but the determination in her eyes mingled with frustration. Her fighting style and exertions were impressive, but Eragon had bested her in every single challenge. Sheathing Brisingr, Eragon held out his hand. Aráthiel's frustration faded as her hand enclosed his.

Accepting her defeats gracefully- which Eragon knew were probably very difficult to receive- Aráthiel inclined her head, "Thank you Ebrithil for sparring with me."

"You have improved," Eragon stated and Aráthiel smiled warmly, accepting the compliment with a gracious tilt of her head. Throughout their extensive sparring, which Eragon knew had pushed Aráthiel's limit, Aráthiel's exertion resulted in tresses of her hair sticking to her face. As she smiled, the sunlight struck her face in such an angle that Eragon was momentarily amazed. She was indeed beautiful. Noting Eragon's observance, Aráthiel glanced at him. She smiled coyly.

Instantly, Eragon cleared his throat. Remembering Saphira's warning, Eragon asked, "Do you know the three boulders by the sea, Aráthiel?"

Aráthiel took a second to respond, "The place which you frequently visit?" Realising what she had just said, Aráthiel blushed furiously. Flattered, Eragon smiled momentarily, but then, it made the gravity of Saphira's warning even weightier. He could not return Aráthiel's advances.

"Yes, the three boulders which I often visit," Eragon repeated, hoping she was not too embarrassed to respond.

"Can I meet you there tonight?" Eragon asked. He knew the question would sound completely like something else and he instantly added, "I would like to tell you a story."

Despite the evident hint that their meeting tonight was not an answer to her romantic advances, Aráthiel still beamed widely. Eragon immediately felt unpleasant for planting such false hopes in her head. Aráthiel nodded her head with barely restrained interest, "Of course, I would love to hear it."

"I shall see you tonight then," Eragon said as he began to walk away. Aráthiel, unable to stop smiling, nodded again. Eragon could discern the obvious happiness emanating from her and he was profoundly saddened at what he had to do:

To break her heart- Eragon wished he did not have to, but… he knew he could not offer his, for it already belonged to someone else.

* * *

><p><strong><em>ExA muse song for this chapter: <em>**

_But all the miles that separate  
>Disappear now when I'm dreaming of your face<em>

__-Here Without You by 3 Doors Down.__

~Rocket


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3 **-** By The Sea**

The sea was serene before him. Waves as gentle as whispers continuously rose and receded from the shore. Reflecting its calmness, the deep red and orange sky hung idly overhead, the remnants of clouds scattered haphazardly about. The dark sand sank lightly under Eragon's footsteps. He had abandoned and left his boots nearby. Walking towards the three boulders, the sand felt unremittingly cool against his feet. The air was also at its beginnings of a delicate and crisp ambience. In a little under an hour, the sky would darken even more and the cool air would be a light sting to the skin.

Eragon frequently visited the three boulders by the sea. Located on the far western part of the land and scattered in a triangular manner, the three boulders were all distinctly different in appearance. They were all roughly Eragon's height. Upon first seeing them, Eragon had instantly liked the location, for it provided him a comfortable position to observe the beautiful sight of the seemingly infinite stretch of the sea. But, deep inside him, Eragon knew his real reasons.

The boulders were appropriately situated to overlook the western direction- towards Alagaësia.

He smiled without humour; as if gazing towards the direction his heart desired would numb its aches. But, it did deliver a sense of profound tranquillity within Eragon, and for everyday that had passed the last few decades; he had never failed to visit his secluded place. Normally, he would sit contemplating, composing his thoughts and looking out while Saphira took to flying or swimming in the sea. However, as Eragon was meeting Aráthiel tonight, Saphira had taken to flying out of sight – but nearby.

Effortlessly, Eragon lifted himself up to one of the boulders and sat down. Originally, the boulders had been uncomfortable to sit on for a long period of time, but Saphira – who knew how much Eragon liked the location – had moulded the top of all the boulders by breathing fire. As a result, the tops of the boulders had all moulded into a relatively rounded and subtle curve ideal for sitting. Eragon had been delightfully surprised when he had arrived and saw the boulders' peaks a glow of orange; he was forever grateful for the adjustment.

Settling down, Eragon let his legs swing over the edge. Mirroring the calmness of the sea, Eragon unconsciously matched the sea's waves with his breathing. Despite his heart's firm decision to remain loyal to Arya, there was also a small and exhausted part which begged to forget her. The self-confliction was familiar to Eragon, for it had haunted him for a while. Although he knew that it could be best for his happiness, Eragon was implacable in his choice.

Besides, how could he even begin to accept someone else when he immediately rejected the thought of any woman taking Arya's place?

Through the din of the waves, Eragon's heightened sense of hearing distinguished a different sound: footsteps against the sand. Collectedly, Eragon looked towards the direction of the sound. Still several metres away, Aráthiel walked with the grace and poise of her race. She smiled as Eragon's gaze met hers and Eragon returned the smile.

With the tinge of soft light playing upon her form, Aráthiel made quite a stunning figure. Her hair was a cascade of long, dark tresses which shimmered as she moved. From where he sat, Eragon could perceive her dark blue eyes settling upon him. They were intensely striking; a trait which Eragon found very beautiful.

A very faint voice echoed in Eragon's head, _a trait which you also found beautiful in someone else. _

He ignored the voice, but acknowledged the truth in them. Eragon restrained a sigh. This was why he could not be with another; for instead of thinking of them, Arya's form and face would sooner or later replace theirs.

As Aráthiel reached him, she gracefully leapt from one of the boulders and settled on the one next to his; she on the left and Eragon on the right – both beholding the sight of the sea. Aráthiel greeted Eragon first in the Ancient Language, her voice soft and gentle. Although the crashing of the waves competed with her voice, Eragon perceived her clearly. Eragon returned the response. Then, Aráthiel tucked her hair behind her ear, her movements elegantly graceful. She gave him a sideways smile, hesitancy showing in her countenance and her body language.

Silence pervaded them and Eragon momentarily took the inopportune time to observe the orange tint of light splay on his hands.

A strange emotion settled within Eragon. With an inward nudge, he realised that he had never really been completely alone with a female for a while – at least, also not in a private and intimate manner that he and Aráthiel now seemed to share. His unique experience with women had left him with a much older and mature behaviour. Intimated by his presence and position, the other Riders his age around the land only saw him as the "Head Rider" and their leader. Eragon could also hardly consider any of his female students a close friend – not the kind of friendship he and Nasuada shared, and most especially, not the kind of relationship he and Arya shared.

But then, he and Aráthiel's relationship bordered uncertain friendship and romance.

Finally, Aráthiel spoke, "It is a beautiful night."

"It is," Eragon agreed.

He remarked upon Aráthiel's tone; although she sounded calm, there was an underlying note in her voice that suggested she was as nervous as he- or at least, as uncertain in the situation as he was. Eragon looked ahead, into the horizon. The sun's last rays cast into the vast expanse of water, the orange glow now a faint ember that graced the sea's rippling surface. Mirroring his observance, Aráthiel too surveyed ahead, her posture still not relaxed, but not overly stiff either. Eragon watched with her as minutes unravelled into mere seconds until the sun discernibly lowered and continued still until its glowing peak disappeared behind the horizon. A different, darker orange glow settled around the land as if the lights were dimmed.

"What little wonders the world holds," Eragon remarked with a faint smile as he gazed at Aráthiel. She too, seemed entranced by the sunset.

"I have never before watched the sunset with such… intensity before," Aráthiel said, wonder tinting her voice.

"And I too, until we came to Alalea," Eragon admitted and looked away.

"It is beautiful."

"Yes, it is," Eragon agreed.

Silence crept around them yet again and Eragon discerned the very slight change in the air. Along with the light, the warmth also ebbed away. He looked at Aráthiel who gazed upon him with a kind of sadness that Eragon felt a tightening around his heart.

As the day crumbled into the beginnings of night, Eragon felt himself yielding, allowing no false facades to mask his countenance. Instead, he felt comfortable and at ease to be finally opening up to someone. To impart details of his life that he before felt too private to speak of. Maybe it was the ambience of the night. Maybe it was finally his solitude breaking him.

The young elf's eyes were an intense contrast to her gentle tone as she murmured delicately, if not a little hesitantly, "You always seemed detached from everyone. I can perceive the sadness you keep hidden from everyone. It is rather hard to miss - you hide it well." Eragon gave a half smile at that. Aráthiel smiled fleetingly too, then she continued and her voice dropped to an even gentler tone, the words a mere brush against the night air, "There is a melancholy around you that I cannot help but feel. I am a mere spectator yet sometimes, I feel as if I could touch the pain you hold." Eragon looked down, quite unable to look at Aráthiel.

In the softest of tones, her voice cut through the air and crept past Eragon's defenses, "Why do you suffer... Eragon?"

At the sound of his name, Eragon abruptly looked up and glanced at Aráthiel. She suddenly seemed fazed at her use of familiarity, "I apologize Ebith-"

Eragon shook his head and smiled weakly, "You may address me by my name, Aráthiel. It is… pleasant to be regarded as a friend."

Aráthiel was relieved. A faint smile graced her lips.

Eragon must have let sadness seeped into his tone, for Aráthiel subtly frowned, "Do you not consider anyone on this land a friend?"

_Apart from Saphira, and ever since Ismira's departure, then… _"No," Eragon admitted. In normal circumstances, Eragon would have felt uncomfortable revealing such personal profession, but the moment, the night and with Aráthiel, he felt rather at ease.

"Well," Aráthiel said lightly, "You have me and Isadarath" –her dragon – "for company should you and Master Saphira desire."

"I thank you Aráthiel," Eragon said, "but it is by sympathy you freely make that offer - not for friendship."

Aráthiel shook her head and said gently, "No. It is by friendship too."

The sound of the waves washing upon the shore momentarily took over the sound of voices. Then, speaking in the Ancient Language, Aráthiel repeated her earlier question which Eragon had not answered, "Why do you suffer, Eragon?"

At this, Eragon exhaled a soft breath. He looked at Aráthiel, felt his eyes softening a little as he knew that he was allowing vulnerability escape into his countenance. "I believe I spoke of telling a story to you earlier today," Eragon smiled lightly, "If you still wish to hear it, then I would like to tell you."

Aráthiel's previous rigid posture diminished into that of a yielding bearing, turning slightly to Eragon, her countenance gentle and compassionate. Softly, she said, "Of course I would."

Eragon nodded once and looked ahead, the sea seeming to rush into him as he delved into his thoughts, bringing forth the memories he so diligently kept in the deepest confines of his mind. Pain - raw, sharp and unwavering emerged with such intensity that Eragon had trouble restraining them, keeping them close in his mind. He did not want them to reveal too much on his countenance, nor did he want to be overwhelmed by their raw intensity. Disjointed pieces and fragments of memories sharpened at the edges and formed into jagged daggers that stabbed at his heart, his defences.

But like the eye of a storm, in the core of the chaos, the person accountable for the havoc was also the one responsible for the sense of calmness. Arya drove him crazy as much as she anchored him to sanity. It was quite a perplexing quandary - one which Eragon did not know how to solve, nor could even attempt to. Arya was a beautiful mystery. Whatever she inadvertently caused him – she had no knowledge or liability for.

As thoughts of his pain and Arya rolled around his mind, Eragon allowed himself minutes to compose his thoughts and memories. There were a great number of them, each one telling their own story and emotion.

The darkness of the night was gradually closing in around them and Eragon let his solitary disposition slip and his guarded defences disintegrate. As he gathered his thoughts, he turned his gaze to the sea. Looking into the distance, Eragon spoke in the Ancient Language, his voice flowing into a lilting and smooth cadence. He began to tell a tale; one that hinted of bittersweet sorrow and unfathomable sadness.

"_A tale of two kindred souls fated together, but destined apart  
>Separated by distance, but kept by a love that shall not depart-<br>A love that will outlast Empires; will always remain a fire,  
>A love that can never be forgotten nor can it ever die."<em>

**Memories **

"_Are you sure we are heading the right way, Fírnen?" Arya asked, concern tinting her voice as her dragon swerved direction yet again. It had been the fourth sudden turn. _

_Fírnen - seemingly oblivious to the plain concern in Arya's voice - reassured rather firmly, "Yes, of course."_

_They were heading for Surda to discuss with the rest of the land's leaders what should be done with the two dragon eggs Eragon had originally left Arya with before they left Alagaësia. Arya had left the two dragon eggs in Ellesméra for the meanwhile – safely protected by intricate enchantments she and some of the elven spellcasters in Ellesméra had placed around the dragon eggs. Until decisions were discussed and voted on, Arya had deemed it proper to keep the eggs secure in Ellesméra - away from any contact with Dwarves, Urgals, Humans _and _Elves. _

_As Fírnen banked steeply to the left again, Arya frowned. Her increasing concern about the direction Fírnen was currently taking deepened as she knew it was not the route she herself would have taken going to Surda. However, she refrained from asking her dragon yet again if he knew where he was going. It was his first full flight from Du WeldenVarden to Surda. _

_It was midsummer and the sun heavily bore down on them, the heat a slight burn to Arya's flesh. But, the wind above the clouds whipped around them; it was refreshing and they balanced Arya's preference of temperature rather appropriately. _

_Only a few seconds had elapsed before a torrent of memories surged from the confines of Arya's mind and onto the forefront. The rush was instigated by Fírnen who had merely thought upon it, "I always see it in your waking dreams," Fírnen said gently, anticipation but also deep sadness leaking through their bond. _

_Arya took a few seconds to comprehend what her dragon was referring to. She felt Fírnen's mental presence tug at hers, leading her onto the same pathway as his. Unconsciously, Arya felt herself look harder far ahead, following Fírnen's sequence of thoughts._

_A vast expanse lay ahead of them and for a moment, even Arya's elven eyes could not discern exactly what Fírnen wanted her to look at. Then, slowly, she felt her mental self merging with Fírnen and suddenly she could look through his eyes. A burst of vibrant colours transformed Arya's sight, and she was momentarily awed by the amount of colours and details she could see through dragon eyes. __Then, very slowly, Arya finally perceived what Fírnen wanted her to see. Arya gasped very softly, the sound lost in the wind. Her heart seemed to convulse as her eyes soaked in the sight: _

_Golden lilies. _

_Hundreds upon hundreds of the lilies glittered like scattered jewels across the wide expanse. The sun's rays cast an awe-striking gleam to them, making them appear like small, golden jewels on the ground. Temporarily shocked and dazed by the sight, Arya could only watch from the sky as the golden lilies stared up at her, their petals raised towards the sun._

_As she observed the gleaming golden lilies from above, memories surged through Arya's head: Eragon's smile, his face as he handed her the lily, the gratitude she felt as they sat side by side, content and in companionable silence. __A lone tear escaped Arya's eye as the memories swam in her mind, tugging at her heart and her emotions. The lilies were such a strong reminder of Eragon's presence and seeing them again invoked such a strong sentiment that Arya felt immense yearning for Eragon's companionship and presence. In that moment, her heart clenched tightly. _

_She missed him terribly. __Although the war was over and peace reigned over the land, the world seemed a much dimmer place without him around. _

_As Arya reminisced the memories of the past, she realised that the one greatest thing that the war bestowed upon her, was that she had met Eragon. _

[...]_  
><em>

_On their return from Surda, Arya delayed their flight back to Du WeldenVarden and she and Fírnen had decided to stay for a few hours in the expanse in which the lilies were situated. Arya stood on the edge of a faint hillock overlooking the lilies. The sun had passed its zenith a long, long while ago and the beginnings of sunset settled around them. It provided an almost sombre ambience and Arya felt her heart grow heavy as she observed the sight. __She felt that if she remained long enough in the presence of the lilies, she could almost feel Eragon's presence fill the air. She inhaled deeply but shakily. Her emotions were a taste of a beautiful chaos. Unfathomable longing and misery intertwined so deeply that she had great difficulty separating the two. _

_As they prepared to leave the expanse, Arya ambled to the nearest lily and crouched down. Very gently, she dug her fingers into the earth and intoned a few enchantments. Gradually, Arya felt its roots brushing against her fingers and the soil forming solidly. As the intonations ended, Arya scooped the ball of soil in which the roots of the lily were gathered. As she held the golden lily in her hand, she glanced at Fírnen who gave her a questioning glance. _

_A soft and empathic sound also escaped him and Arya looked to the sun as it began to set. A warm glow bathed the expanse in a soft orange light and Arya felt delicate and vulnerable as she said, "_I cannot forget him, Fírnen."

_The statement was simple. The truth. The verity of her words could not be denied and Arya uttered it with such conviction that Fírnen did not even need to voice his agreement. _

_Silence settled between them and Fírnen mentally comforted Arya in her moment of distress. She responded in return and both dragon and rider cherished each other's comfort. As light dwindled delicately around them, Arya transferred her gaze from the lowering sun to the lone lily on her cupped hand and murmured very faintly, _"I shall plant this one in the gardens of Tialdarí Hall."

[...]

_It had been half a year since Eragon and his dragon Saphira had left for a land unknown to them. Arya sat on one of the tallest trees, situated near the western fringes of Du WeldenVarden. She leant against the tree, her legs tucked in at her knees, her arms embracing them. Fírnen was out hunting, some of his emotions leaking through their mental bond – the mental wall between them a little nothing more than a flimsy barrier._

_It was late into the afternoon and the beginnings of summer surrounded the forest. Somewhere, a faint harp was playing, its soft and gentle strings weaving into the air, setting a pensive mood to the forest. Preparations for early summer singing had begun. In a few more days, the elves would be singing life into the forest, compelling the trees and wildlife to grow. It was at summer when Elves felt the most joyful, for they heartened at the sight of their homes and the forest bloom into deeper and vivid vibrancy. Arya felt the joy tug at her heart, but somehow it could not take permanent residence. _

_She sighed sadly and with great longing. She knew why; Eragon._

_Although he had long departed from the land – he had never departed from her heart. Most of her days and hours were occupied with the thoughts of him, whether it was by accident or intentional. Arya never could figure out why she had been reduced to nothing more than a heart-stricken female. Inwardly, she laughed bitterly at her situation. From her observances a long time ago, human females seemed to overreact in sadness and despondency when they were heartbroken. Before, Arya could never understand why or how they could devote so much time seemingly depressed. _

_Now, she knew why. _

_There was a sense of incompletion within her, as if there was an unfathomable, gaping hole carved out of her heart. It was accompanied by a seemingly perpetual ache, restricting her breathing, tightening a hold around her heart. She found little joy and cheers from anything, and a smile was hard to come by. Tears also threatened to fall every now and then, when the pain in her chest seemed to become unbearable. _

_The soft melody in the forest hummed low now, descending into a quieter and a seemingly more melancholy tune. The sound tugged at Arya's heartstrings, the ache making her heart feel utterly unbearable. Arya transferred her gaze from the vibrant foliage and upwards – in hope that her tears would not fall. Through the thinning tangles of the tree top's branches, Arya could just about perceive the cerulean sky above. As she tried to compose herself and mend the increasing fissures of her heart, Arya quietly whispered, "Duty above all else." _

_She repeated the haunting reminder several times under her breath, hoping that it would inhabit her heart instead of Eragon.  
><em>

**Under The Moonlight**

As Eragon finally uttered the last few verses of the story, a deep silence befell them. Even the sound of the waves seemed dimmed in the night. A few seconds elapsed before Aráthiel finally spoke. Her voice was delicately soft, her tone carrying an indecipherable empathy, but also sadness, "Though I know words could not possibly numb the pain you hold in your heart – accept my comfort."

Holding his gaze, Aráthiel reached out with her hand, a little tentative at first, but as her hand made contact with Eragon's, she delicately wrapped her hand around his. Her skin was soft and warm against his. As hot tears burned in Eragon's eyes, the contact profoundly comforted him. The tears threatened to fall, but Eragon contained them… just barely. He squeezed Aráthiel's hand gently in acknowledgement and in gratitude. As silence embraced them both with its invisible and terrifying arms, Aráthiel spoke, her voice barely a whisper in the silent night, "I am sorry."

Silence permeated between them again. There were indeed no words that could numb Eragon's heartache, nor did he expect any words to. With tears still lingering in his eyes, Eragon let several minutes passed before he deigned to answer. "Thank you. I appreciate your company, Aráthiel." Then, abruptly, he chuckled without humour and began, "I apologize-"

Surprisingly, Aráthiel silenced him with her gentle and comforting words, "You need not apologize," She squeezed his hand lightly, "Never apologize for how you feel."

Although sympathy and warmth enclosed her words, Eragon discerned that she was saying it to herself as well as him. Like a jolt in his mind, Eragon re-established how she felt toward him. But, although his heart still rejected her, there had always been a small part of it- and no matter how inconsequential it was – it felt willing to try. To Eragon's astonishment, that part was not so small now.

After confiding in Aráthiel, Eragon felt closer to her and the thought of her and him together suddenly did not seem too unpleasant anymore. His loneliness had been enclosed in a dam. Aráthiel's words and her company had caused a fissure. It was a notable fissure, for Eragon felt the strains of his anguish and pain quietly recede. Although familiarity with the sentiments had not numbed their intensity, Eragon felt a quiet calmness and peace endeavouring to replace it.

Night had inevitably arrived and Eragon felt Aráthiel tremble at the sting of the cold. With no cover from the strengthening gusts of wind, Eragon felt ill-mannered to have Aráthiel out in the chilly night with him. Inclining his head apologetically, Eragon said, "I am sorry to have kept you up and out all night, if you wish-"

Aráthiel laughed faintly, a reaction –albeit a pleasant one – Eragon did not expect. "I have enjoyed the night with you... Eragon." The word rolled of her tongue uncertainly, but Eragon encouraged her with a smile, "On a normal night, Isadarath would have wanted to play riddles." Accompanied by such a light and jesting tone, Aráthiel's eyes gleamed brightly under the moonlight.

Eragon laughed with her, "Well, I am most definitely certain that she and Saphira have had a wonderful night challenging each other with riddles then. Saphira is more than fond of such fascinating trivialities."

Aráthiel smiled widely.

The night wore on, the position of the moon curving above the night sky as a few hours passed them in swift succession. Neither Eragon nor Aráthiel grew tedious of the marginal exchange of seemingly inconsequential details about their lives. As they spoke, Eragon realised that he quite enjoyed Aráthiel's company. However, while it was not entirely strong enough for any romantic attachment, Eragon could easily perceive her as a close friend.

In the midst of their conversations, Eragon realised that he never addressed the situation regarding Aráthiel's increasingly evident infatuation. He was reluctant. How would one address such matter? Or, even begin to? Perhaps another time such matter should be addressed. He did not wish to taint the good bond that had formed between them with upsetting words.

As their conversation began to trail into yet another topic, Eragon noted upon the alarming sense of time. They had talked well into the night and from his senses, he gathered that it would be sunrise fairly soon. Aráthiel too, had noted the fact, but she seemed reluctant to remark upon it.

She shifted in her seat. It was a surprise that neither had been uncomfortable throughout the few hours they had spent sitting on stone boulders. Aráthiel seemed reluctant as she transferred her gaze from the lightly glowing horizon to Eragon.

Eragon smiled lightly, "The next day is but several hours away. My decorum had decided to evade me the last hours, resulting in my keeping you confined to myself."

A tease of a smile played upon the corners of Aráthiel's lips.

"I apologize for doing so," Eragon murmured, "But I am ever so grateful for the company, Aráthiel."

The dark-haired elf smiled fully, "As am I for yours… Eragon."

As both began to separate their ways, Aráthiel glanced at Eragon, her dark blue eyes piercing him. But, Eragon did not waver at her gaze. Aráthiel did not let her eyes settle for quick or fleeting glance, but her gaze lingered much longer than was expected. The relaxed and comfortable air they shared seemed to falter slightly under her scrutinising moment.

Speaking softly in the native tongue of the elves, Aráthiel regarded Eragon with a hint of sadness, but also boldness as she uttered softly, "I do not ask for the same love you gave _and_ give _her,__" _A fleeting pause,_ "_I would not ask for that much– only perhaps that in time, when you look at me… you do not always see _her_."

With that, she walked away, her footsteps noiseless against the sand. Eragon watched her leave without a response to her words - for he could not.

He could not make promises he knew he would not be able to keep.

**The Burden of Duty  
><strong>

Ilirea was a beautiful place. However, despite its renovations since the fall of Galbatorix, there was still a gloomy ambience about the city, as if it could not entirely rid of the dark king's presence. Ilirea had been an elven stronghold before the Fall of the Riders and much of its construction still resembled elven makings. The heart of Ilirea had tall spire-like buildings made of glass and stone. They would seem weak against the strong winds that sometimes swept over the city – especially in Fall and Winter solstices – but the buildings were very resilient.

However, the main citadel – which was previously coloured black – was remodelled and completed over thirty to forty years ago. Through the combined magic of the Elves, magicians and other several Dragon Riders who had long since returned from their training in Alalea and significant Dwarven crafts masterminds, had converted the main citadel into the constructions of glass and stone, to resemble the other spire-like buildings which surrounded it.

Scattered around the city were a few emerald towers – which still survived after the Great Battle. Two of the towers had been destroyed in the siege. However, gradually, two more towers were restored and the city was further fortified. In the sunlight, Ilirea's towers were burning emerald beacons, the tall spire-like glass and stone buildings and the main citadel appeared like gleaming jewels. From above, the Ilirea was beyond impressive. With the appearance of the glass-constructed buildings and bright emerald towers, plus the formation of houses and buildings – the city seemed precise and well-designed.

Fírnen flew high above Ilirea, the bustling activity of trade and crowds below perceptible. A few cheers and shouts hollered as Fírnen emerged from the clouds. Although Riders were more commonly seen in Alagaësia than in the last century, people were still constantly awed by the presence of dragons and Riders when they saw them. To Arya's knowledge, thirty out of the nine and forty dragon Riders in known existence were currently in Alagaësia. The other nineteen were in Alalea, either still training or studying. Sweeping the city with her mind, Arya quickly gathered that most of the Dragon Riders were in the city. The rest were in patrol around the land or on errands.

Through reasons relatively unenforced, Arya had become the Head Rider of Alagaësia. Eragon Shadeslayer or Kingkiller - as he was more renowned was the official Leader of all the Riders – but since he was not present in Alagaësia, the Riders in the land regarded Arya as the leader, in absence of Eragon. Arya was not entirely sure what to make of the matter. While it was not so much difficult, it was a heavy responsibility – especially along with her role as also the Queen of the Elves. Fortunately, all the Riders and their Dragons had all been properly and fully trained by Eragon himself, therefore they need not learn from her. However, Arya was the person all Riders answered to before they sailed to Alalea.

In the past five decades, there had been numerous Human and Elven Riders, while only a handful divided amongst Dwarves and Urgals. Arya informed them of essential knowledge about being a Dragon Rider and would order them to remain in the land until their dragons were a couple of months big enough to travel the great western seas of Alagaësia to Alalea. It was not a hard task, but one that heavily demanded a great portion of her time. When an influx of dragons hatched for their Riders, Arya had always appointed Lord Däthedr in her stead of rule of the Elves while she devoted her time with the Dragon Riders.

As Eragon had only sent back fifty dragon eggs to Alagaësia - and in groupings - it had been convenient to Arya as she could teach more Riders instead of just one. The last grouping of Riders had set sail to Alalea over three years ago. They were good honourable Riders and two had been Elves – Faine and Aráthiel.

One day, in an unexpected moment of curiosity, Arya had wondered whether any of the Riders, especially female ones, had appealed to Eragon. After all, they were all immortal and there was no barrier that could hinder a union between two Riders. The sudden and unbidden thought had startled Arya, and had also stirred an intense jealousy within her that even Fírnen did not know what to say. However, Arya had quelled the thought as soon as she could, fighting to keep her emotions in check. Still, the thought always tugged at her, frustrating her. The frustration kept amounting further every time a beautiful female Rider was sent to Alalea – the most recent one being Aráthiel. She was a beautiful elf – a great beauty, even amongst her kind. When a dragon had hatched for her, Arya had felt a deep rooted jealousy spring within her that she had struggled to rein it in every time she interacted with Aráthiel. She felt penitent that she could not restrain such emotions for seemingly petty trivialities and even more so at the fact that Aráthiel received her cold shoulder – and one she perhaps would never know the reason to.

But it had been over three years since Aráthiel's group left for Alalea - the most recent of Rider groupings, and also the last. All of the Dragon eggs that were intended to be hatched had found their Riders. From her interactions with most Humans, Elves, Dwarves and Urgals, Arya had been pleased that all the Riders the dragons had chosen had been of great courage and diligence - or at least, showed great potentials of it.

Arya had been surprised when one day, she had faced Ismira - the daughter of Roran Stronghammer, cousin to Eragon - and was presented to her as a Dragon Rider. The girl had only been fifteen when the Gedwey Ignasia burned brightly on her palm. After her four-five year training in Alalea and Ismira had been assigned to Alagaësia again, the girl had then regarded her with a silent respect and an underlying wariness that she did know not the root of. It seemed as if the girl knew her - but at the same time did not. A flash of familiarity and recognition would appear briefly in her eyes and would disappear in the same second. However, Arya had never questionned her about it. She could only assume that most people thought they knew her - for she was known all over the land.

Ismira was very eloquent and she quickly discerned her to be one of the shining examples of a great Dragon Rider. The young girl always addressed Arya by her status as the Head Rider of Alagaësia, "Ebrithil". Ismira was polite and she had a likeable aura around her that Arya found that many people were drawn to. Ismira had also been the one to hand her a carefully folded letter from Eragon upon her return from Alalea. The letter spoke of the progress of the Riders and the happenings of the land. The last couple of paragraphs had been devoted to Eragon's regard for her. Even on paper, Eragon's concern for her never failed to make Arya feel cherished. Arya remembered hot tears falling onto the parchment as she had read the letter - the one of few that always arrived with each return of Rider groups.

With each letter that arrived, Arya's yearning for him grew.

Over the five decades, only about five letters were exchanged. Arya cherished each and every one, keeping them close to her. Although she knew that it was an unhealthy fixation, she kept the letters in the folds of her tunic. The letters all had tears and the folds were exhausted from the constant opening and folding. Arya read them whenever she was alone. It was a beautiful self-conflict she had with herself concerning Eragon. She endeavoured to forget him, but at the same time, clung onto every memory and reminder of him - however trivial. She was certain that a part of her was foolish. Nevertheless, anything within herself that told her to forget Eragon she did not particularly adhered to. It was as if she could.

Fírnen distracted her thoughts momentarily as he remarked, _Most of them are here. _

Arya shook her head, clearing her thought and focused on Fírnen's link.

She knew what Fírnen was referring to - the other Dragon Riders and their dragons. There would be more Dragon Riders and their dragons around the city – and perhaps more flooding in after the messages regarding the gathering of the Council of Alagaësia had been sent out. The Council of Alagaësia was recognized with the highest importance. Over five and forty years ago, the Council of Alagaësia and Eragon had agreed that only exactly fifty dragon eggs were allowed to hatch. Alagaësia need not be overrun once more by countless of dragons - especially after people have become wary of them and their Riders. The dark times which Galbatorix bestowed upon the land was never to be forgotten. Somewhere, in all the libraries and studies of Alagaësia, history had recorded what had been once beautiful and also terrible.

Since the recent Rider groupings had been dispatched for Alalea, Arya had not been too preoccupied with too many Dragon Rider matters. Often, Riders who had come back from Alalea and came to live here had only come to her for advice. It did happen quite often, but most of the Riders had been trained well. And that realization too had made Arya's heart swell with pride and happiness in knowledge and evidence that Eragon had done a magnificent job in training them. With the Riders that now resided in Alagaësia, Arya had the full authority of giving them orders to send them on missions and other miscellaneous errands. However, Arya mostly sent them on patrol and each Rider had a land to oversee and occasionally everyone would switch places. However, switching did not occur very often, for most Riders were happy with the land they were responsible for.

Fírnen was recognized throughout the land and so was she. They were the only royalty in the skies - Arya amongst the Riders. Both Queen and Dragon Rider, Arya's duties kept her constantly flying in and out of Du WeldenVarden and to other cities all over Alagaësia. In fact, she was probably one of the few who knew the land to a precise and accurate detail. As of recently, Arya had even abandoned looking at the map whenever they flew out, for she could easily conjure the routes and paths needed to be taken to get to their destination as effortlessly she could wield a sword.

As Fírnen landed on Ilirea Castle's courtyard, several of the guards distanced themselves away, but they also seemed impervious to the landing. Ilirea was _the _city of Alagaësia and most Riders visited often. So the castle guards had probably grown indifferent to the constant landing and flight of dragons. However, as the guards glimpsed the gleaming diadem and the unmistakable emerald dragon of the Elven Queen, they all seemed to stand straighter and taller, their lances and spears held more firmly.

Arya leapt off Fírnen gracefully and she walked across the large castle courtyard. She was wearing her queen's diadem – a political and distinguishable object that Arya used when attending formal discussions and conventions with other races of the land. Her clothing was one of armour and also of royalty, her maroon and golden cape billowing in the wind. She had only doned on the cape a few leagues before they entered Ilirea. Támerlein - which was ever present in her journeys and everywhere she went to - was sheathed safely on her hip.

As Arya passed the guards, they all either tilted their heads in a respective manner or gazed at her with wonder - either one that made Arya slightly uncomfortable or feel more regal. Although fifty years was a long time to come by, she had never truly felt comfortable being regarded with the highest and utmost respect and manner. Sometimes, she wondered if the path she had chosen had been the right one. Although doubts were always fleeting - they also _always _left their mark.

_I will fly to the hall when you enter, _Fírnen informed her_. _Arya acknowledged, knowing that Fírnen would probably head off to see others of his kin. Or go hunting. The distance they had traversed had been quite an exhausting one. Yet Arya felt the renewed energy sweeping through Fírnen's body.

_Be careful, _Arya smiled as she stroked his snout, _You flew fast and well. _

_As always, _said Fírnen rather proudly.

Arya gave a light squeeze as she embraced Fírnen's neck. She hated to be away from him, but her solitary disposition sometimes numbed the aches whenever she and Fírnen were away from each other. The pact Eragon had achieved to fortify and create also inadvertently caused the bond between dragon and Rider to become stronger. Although that seemed like marvellous news, it meant that if a Rider or their dragon died, one would almost unmistakably be driven into absolute madness. Arya did not dare think of the grief that would befall her or any Rider and dragon if such incident occured.

After taking her pack from her saddle, Arya gave Fírnen another affectionate pat on the neck. _Do not stray too far away, _said Arya mentally, _come to the chambers on the eastern part of the citadel when you are done. _

Since they were frequent visitors of Ilirea and of noble and royal title - Arya had temporary chambers kindly allocated to her by Nasuada. It was the place they always stayed at whenever they visited the city. Fírnen also had his own space in the chambers - a huge open top room conveniently placed right next to Arya's chambers.

Wind gathered around the courtyard as Fírnen unfolded his wings and took off into the sky. Fírnen had grown so large over the last fifty years. He was - besides Thorn - the biggest dragon in Alagaësia. From the constant flying all over the land, Fírnen's body seemed more streamlined and lean for a male dragon. But, Arya found that it meant that Fírnen resembled her combat build: nimble, agile and deadly swift.

As the wind caused by Fírnen's flight abruptly settled down, the courtyard stilled.

Ultimately, the courtyard was used for dropping off Riders and their dragons would normally rejoin them in appropriate landing areas scattered throughout the citadel and other convenient landing areas around the city. Arya made her way to the main building of the citadel compound. Soon, Arya was joined by her elven assembly. Lord Däthedr and two other elven officials flanked her sides, while highly trained and skilled elven spellcasters and warriors shadowed their party. However, one of the guards remained firmly at the front, carrying a banner – the insignia of the Elves.

Arya had been reluctant to be swarmed by such a large group, but over the decades, she had grown accustomed to such number. In fact, it had been even worse when she had started, for it was not three officials who would flank her, but an unnecessary number of six. Although Arya had been very keen on travelling alone in journeys to other parts of Alagaësia by herself, the majority of the Elven Council had wisely suggested she should travel with a host in every formal visit.

Unfortunately enough, most visits were formal.

As her and her party entered the main citadel – through large and robust metallic doors leading to the focal part of Ilirea Castle – the banner carrier halted as he was greeted by a Castle's esquire. There were several of them and were in charge of all events and situations concerning diplomats, authorities and leaders visiting Ilirea. Each esquire was assigned to a visiting and imposing party. Essentially, they were also the guides and also acted as heralds to introduce them whenever their assigned party arrived in the citadel grounds, whether by foot or by flight landing.

Arya occasionally visited Ilirea and upon their approach to their minister, she recognized the esquire to be Arrack – a stout old male with receeding hair and clean shaven face. Arrack greeted the elven party in the Ancient Language and bowed, his acted behaviour and decorum the conventional procedures to greeting visiting parties - and perhaps even more elevated and over-formal as he was conversing with a royal.

He bowed from the waist, all smiles and formalities, "Welcome to Ilirea, Queen Arya of the Elves. I trust your journey fared well?" His voice was as rich as the jewels that graced his stubby fingers. One burned ruby, while the other gleamed of silver.

Arya inclined her head gracefully, her countenance impassive, "Greetings, esquire Arrack. Yes, the journey went smoothly – we encountered no problems along the way."

The esquire continued onto a few more speech trivialities that Arya honestly was uninterested in. She answered the greetings a little impatiently. She was quite raring to reach Ilirea's Hall to discuss the rather intriguing matters which Vanir had imparted to the elven council a few days ago. As the formalities and other trivial matters settled, Arrack then began to lead them to Arya's chambers.

As they strode through the corridors of Ilirea Castle, all guards they had passed regarded the group with an awe-struck appearance and silent admiration. The Elves were ethereal creatures to them – their footfalls did not fall heavy against the concrete floor, nor did they make boisterous sounds like parties of Urgals and Dwarves. They certainly did not reek of Urgals either - every breath of wind that they caused smelled of fresh spring and sweet summer. The Elves walked smoothly and confidently, their movements making them appear as if they were gliding down the corridors like beautiful, haunting phantoms. Their hairs shined and gleamed with dazzling luminosity, as if firelight always bathed upon them in mesmerizing light. They depicted the same facial structure - delicate, beautiful and striking.

Although Arya was quite exhausted from the journey, she was rather impatient for the Council meeting. There was much that needed to be discussed and she wanted answers. Questions always pestered her to no end. In good time though, perhaps answers would shed some light on some matters. They were to convene in Ilirea Hall the following morning - after all the officials and leaders had rested after their journeys from their lands.

Ilirea Hall was grand – it was immense in size as they were designed to accommodate several dragons as well as people. It was upheld by large and grand marble pillars which were arranged in two long lines down the hall. An immensely long table, accompanied by its heavy mahogany throne-like seats, also stretched from one end of the room to the other. It was, Arya thought, made fittingly for the Council of Alagaësia's gatherings. Often enough, there would be one held once every month to discuss the progress of the land and each race's situations and news. No meeting took less than two hours.

The Council consisted of the leaders of each race – Humans, Elves, Dwarves, Werecats and Urgals. However, if a leader somehow could not make the dated arrangement, they would send an Ambassador. But, Arya always attended meetings concerning the Council of Alagaësia. She had only sent Vanir to relatively trivial ones. Dragon Riders were also welcome to the Council of Alagaësia meetings and there were always at least one or two representatives. Although change had transformed Riders' authority, for they were not regarded with the utmost superiority over the land. This declaration had been enforced through the mutual agreement of every leader of each race – including Eragon's.

Since the dark reign of King Galbatorix, most of the peoples of Alagaësia also seemed indisposed to such arrangements. So it passed that the Riders still acted as peacekeepers over the land, but their authority was limited. However, their statuses still spoke of high respect and the valour and honour of being a Dragon Rider was not forgotten. Although Galbatorix and the Forsworn had tarnished the honour of Riders before them, the glory of their brilliance still lived on.

Dragon Riders – often the most senior - imparted news from Alalea. The first Rider to have succeeded through their Dragon Rider training was a human male called Berathor. He had been eight and twenty, just under a year after Eragon's departure, when the first dragon egg after Fírnen hatched for him. From what Arya remembered nine and forty years ago, Nasuada had beamed when Berathor had become a Dragon Rider; for Berathor had been fast becoming one of her greatest warriors. In the battles leading up to the Great Battle of Urû'baen, Berathor had been one of the young lieutenants under Jörmundur's command. However, Arya knew the true root of Nasuada's contentment of the matter, for it meant that she had the power to have Berathor swear allegiance to her and become his liege lord.

Although power-hungry leaders could be dismissed – another declaration through higher orders' agreement – each race's leader was evidently delighted whenever one of their kin became a Dragon Rider. A little less than being regarded with the absolute superiority, Dragon Riders were undeniably powerful. Although every race was ever watchful of their leaders or Riders becoming too greedy for power – for everyone dare not hope for a repeat of history of Galbatorix' dark and terrible reign.

As Arya and her host continued to stride down the relatively wide and grand hallways lined with perpetually burning lanterns of Ilirea Castle, every guard bowed and addressed her as "Queen Arya" as she walked past them. She would acknowledge with a subtle hint of a nod, but did not busy herself with further and unnecessary formalities. She already handled a great amount with the Elves. Although the delicate and sometimes fragile intricacies of politics were important to tread through, Arya rarely found them to be sincerely of interest.

But, Arya had an attitude of disregard when it came to her happiness or preference when it came to duty.

After all, a long time ago, she had promised herself to keep duty above all else. And again, it was in the sombre, delicate quietness of Du WeldenVarden's forest that she had repeatedly commanded herself to attach the important reminder to every facet of her being – to veil all gaps and confines of distraction and displeasure. She also carried the yawë – a bond of trust _and _sole devotion and absolute duty to her people. Her path to monarchy further testified her commitment to her people. None of the older elves – even ones who were significant prospects for the elven throne – had questioned her adamant loyalty.

Arya was known to prize the epitome of utter dedication.

However, no one apart from Fírnen – who she could now never hide from – knew that such entrustment was immensely momentous. It profoundly influenced Arya; it dictated her actions and approach to everyone. Although many praised and admired Arya for her chosen path of loyalty and dedication to her people, no one saw past the façades she wore, nor the burden that such obligation brought.

In every formal affair that Arya attended and waking morning she stepped into, she could never forget such duty. Duty governed her. She could not escape from it. She never could. The reminder was ever strong, ever fierce and ever relentlessly _painful._

For each passing reminder of obligation and duty also came with the deep-seated emotions of fervent, rolling waves - of intense cutting anguish and of ever potent and inexorable heartbreak.

For every reminder of duty, came the inevitable thought of Eragon.

* * *

><p><strong><em>ExA muse songs for this chapter:<em>**

_And change is coming my way,  
>But I still feel the same<br>I still feel the same_

Eragon  
>-World Turns, Secondhand Serenade<p>

_You are my only hope,  
>But you're so far<em>

_And you are my only hope,  
>So come back home from where you are<em>

Arya  
>-Only Hope, Secondhand Serenade<p>

~Rocket


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:**This chapter has multiple POVs as well. Sub-chapters POV from Murtagh, Eragon, one-time unimportant character called Tristan and Ismira.

Warning! The sub-chapter titled _Encountering Evil _contains rather graphic violence. Feel free to skip. I don't think it's ultimately necessary a part to understand the whole plot. Hope you enjoy the chapter!**  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4 - <strong>Nightmare<strong>  
><strong>

_One week earlier _

_The ground grew black and brittle where we treaded and the air smelled of brimstone. It was a place where the land smelled of poison and the earth quaked with frightening force. I remember Umaroth's warning alarm in my head, but I could not help myself. I took a step into the dark chasm which light could not even seem to penetrate. Thorn growled in warning, but I was helpless against the compelling force that pushed me forward. As my feet touched the ground; a cold, slicing shudder ran through my entire body. The ground gave an ominous shake. _

_Suddenly, dark figures propelled into the air, smoke trailed behind them like blazing fire. The air turned to crisp around us – I could not breathe. Pain exploded behind my eyes as my senses overwhelmed me. The intensity of the brimstone invaded my nostrils and a numbing, deafening pin of a sound cut through me. I beheld a sight as great as it was terrifying. Shadows of a great terrible number screeched from the Earth. Cloaked in_ _otherworldly_ _veils, they rose from the abyss like swift tendrils of the darkest smoke. They billowed upwards, carried by the fierce winds that whipped around us. Thorn no longer growled, and he let out a distressed whine. I reached for him mentally and together we prepared ourselves for what the dark figures were about to unleash. _

_There were a great number of them, all floating in the air, a stark black and wisps of darker grey around them. The sky was darkening in return, as if the figures had spewed venom into the air. They were living poison. The air was not cold, but now freezing. My teeth chattered. I could not move. From stricken with fear or by a binding force, I did not know. Thorn spoke to me but the words were incoherent, even in my mind. The screeching continued combined with the whipping winds around us. The earth from the ground rose with the forming torrent. I should have been whisked into the air like a tossed leaf but an invisible force held me still._

_I looked at the gaping chasm below my feet and it was a stare into nothingness. I could perceive nothing, nothing but total blackness. My throat was suddenly raw and aching. I realized that I had been screaming. I looked up, the dark figures not floating, but now seeming to move on their own accord. Although everything was loud around me, I could begin to hear faint whisperings. It was incoherent, seemingly another language. They invaded my mind and Thorn mentally roared in defiance. He attempted to purge the dark tendrils of smoke that enveloped us. Our resistance was weak and they were far stronger. In a few seconds, they were able to crush our defences. _

_The dark figures loomed ahead. They were like black clouds against the darkening sky. The whispers amplified. _

_Then they headed straight for us._

"…Murtagh!" Nasuada's voice broke through his dreams; or more fittingly, his nightmare. Murtagh felt himself jolt as he opened his eyes. He was breathing heavily and he could feel his skin filmed with seat. Seeking her comfort, her arms, Murtagh sat up and enveloped her in his arms. His hair was damp as he leaned against their bed's headboard. Nasuada whimpered softly as she said, "You were having nightmares again." It was a quiet statement, not a question.

Murtagh did not respond for a minute. He stroked her arm as she curled up next to him, her presence swiftly alleviating the alarm, the panic that had risen only a few minutes earlier. Nasuada laid her hand on his chest and he wondered if she could feel the pounding of his heart. Murtagh spoke, his voice raspy, "It's okay." He comforted her although he knew that a part of him was also telling himself.

Thorn's mental voice drifted to him, _Murtagh? _A question etched with sympathy.

_I'm fine, Thorn_. Murtagh responded gently. His dragon's concern enveloped him intensely and he gave Thorn a mental equivalent of an embrace.

Murtagh dipped his head and brushed Nasuada's forehead, his words a mindless murmur. They remained in each other's arms for several minutes, revelling in the sound of each other's soft breathing. Nasuada's hand splayed on Murtagh's chest, her thumb continually stroking the tense muscles beneath. Then Murtagh spoke, his voice just above a whisper, "I dreamt of the shadows again. It was more vivid… I am beginning to remember."

Nasuada was silent, her body pressing close to his. Over the last few weeks, Murtagh had had nightmares. He could not rid of them. Occasionally, he had dreamless sleeps, but on some nights… the nightmares plagued him. It was always the same one – always about the shadows. It left him cold.

Only Nasuada anchored him to the present. Murtagh dreaded at what each night would bring. In every nightmare he recollected more details, more remembrance of his journey with Thorn in the northern edges of Alagaësia. He thought they had long been forgotten. But he was wrong. They were coming back; as swift as they were ferocious. It terrified him.

Thorn spoke mentally, _I saw the nightmare… our memories are but jagged pieces of a bigger recollection. I do not know what we encountered in the north. _Murtagh shared the same sentiment. They had long forgotten what had transpired.

The first night Murtagh had dreamt of the shadows, he had woken up shaking and shivering. Nasuada had held him, her body cocooned him and calmed him. This was the fifth night Murtagh had dreamt of the shadows. Despite not having remembrance of the whole thing, he feared what would unfold in the very last recollection. Did they unleash an ancient evil? The shadows were nothing that he and Thorn had ever before encountered. From his nightmare, Murtagh knew they were cold, foul and ruthless.

"Why do nightmares plague you, my love?" Nasuada whispered, her voice laced with anguish.

If not for the miserable situation, Murtagh would have let out a bitter laugh. He had been used to rejection, condemnation and disappointment. What was a nightmare to add to the collection? But Nasuada had provided him a sense of peace, a sense of profound tranquillity that he would not have been able to find by himself. Nasuada was the reason he could endure life, carry on living after his tormented servitude.

Murtagh breathed deeply, "I do not know." It had been more than four decades since he and Thorn had ventured into the north of Alagaësia. He did not know why memories long buried from the past were now surfacing. Before the nightmares, he had never before remembered of such shadows. All he knew when he and Thorn emerged from the north was that they lived life in solitude for five years. During that time, Murtagh had meditated extensively, practicing his mind, honing his defences. He refused _ever _to let someone pass his mental barriers, save for Thorn and Nasuada. He was free. No one would bind him. Murtagh had also practiced his combat skills and trained vigorously until his muscles had ached, until Za'roc had dropped from his heavy-leaden hands.

Murtagh took Nasuada's hand from his chest and brought it upon his lips. He spoke against her hand and repeated softly, "I do not know."

Nasuada looked up, her eyes meeting his, "I am here for you."

Returning her hand to his chest, Murtagh traced Nasuada's cheek, damp from her tears, with his fingertips. Gently, he brushed against her jaw, his fingers a fleeting touch. "I know," Murtagh whispered, choking back the lump in his throat. "You were there when no one else was."

Fresh tears brimmed in Nasuada's eyes. "As you were for me…"

Murtagh knew that Galbatorix' torture had left an everlasting mark on her. He always felt guilt for he knew that he too had been involved in her torture. Although Nasuada had forgiven him for that, he never forgave himself. Out of all the tasks he had ever executed under Galbatorix' command, Nasuada's torture was the most horrific. So, he spent every day trying to make her forget. His love for her was fierce.

Murtagh placed his lips softly against hers. He tasted the salty liquid of her tears. He pulled back slightly, his lips a hairsbreadth from hers, "Go to sleep, my love."

Curled around him, Nasuada tightened her hand around his waist. She leant her head against his shoulder and her mere nearness brought a sense of completion within him. The pain caused from his nightmare had been alleviated. As he held her close, Murtagh closed his eyes and hoped that if he should dream in the next few hours, it would be about her. _No more nightmares_, Murtagh hoped softly.

Because with every memory relieved, Murtagh dreaded that the line between reality and nightmare would soon vanish.

**Revelation**

The rays of sunlight set the whole island ablaze- bathing it with its warm, fiery glow. Above the land- through the cluster of clouds- dragons of all colour adorned the skies. For a dragon, the sunrise ambience always felt the best for flying. There was little wind and the air was both warm and cool to their scales. It was a time- as Eragon simply discerned it to be- the dragons' playtime. For as the day would wear on, training and lessons will take place. Saphira was already flying high amongst the clouds, her joy fierce and apparent through their link. Eragon smiled at her happiness and he mentally separated from her as he prepared for his meditation.

As the new day rose on Alalea, another day past the five decades away from Alagaësia, Eragon felt slightly sentimental. Being an immortal, he felt that the fifty years had flown swiftly by. It was a strange, peculiar feeling. It felt as if the world had aged while he had escaped the monstrous ravages of time. Fifty years. Over five decades away from his home, from Arya.

Not a day passed without a thought of her crossing his mind. How was she faring? Eragon's concern for her wellbeing had always far exceeded than those of friendship. He was connected to her, a part of him always yearning for her. At this, Eragon's heart lurched. A single thought that always drove him to raw heartbreak… _Does she miss me as much as I miss her? _It was a painful and tormenting thought.

The last letter between them had been over a few years ago – when the new set of Riders arrived in Alalea for training. Eragon's responding letter subsequently followed several months later, when a couple of the senior Riders returned to Alagaësia. He did not know when the next letter from her would arrive. How cruel fate was that only a piece of parchment provided that connection with her. Even then, Eragon dared not pour his feelings for her in those letters. He did not want to drive the separation between them further. He loved her, but there was one thing he would never be able to do:

Let her go.

How could he even begin to? Stop his heart?

Eragon shook his head at the thought. Each passing day brought a sense of heartache and Eragon wondered if just a part, no matter how trivial it may be, was willing to let her go. The night with Aráthiel had opened a different path for him. A path he was free to take. It did not foretell of the future, whether it would end badly or happily – but he did know that it told him of the present. But one night could not change almost a lifetime of desire for the same woman. And unfortunately for him, immortality too was proving to be a maddening obstacle. Was it wrong for him then, to choose Aráthiel?

If the first lifetime did not give him what he wanted, was it so wrong to choose a different one on the next?

Although he had been deliberating between the two, Eragon always felt a tug, a profound, insistent tug that lured him back to Arya. He was irrevocably connected with her. Even if he came to love Aráthiel, he would never forget, or could never forget loving Arya.

Eragon gave a mental sigh as he moved across the clearing. Saphira had taken to flying. The weather was glorious and the sun washed upon the land like a still ocean. Vivid, tranquil and utterly beautiful. As Eragon reflected on his thoughts, there was a heavy feeling in his chest. He could not surmount the fact that he and Saphira had passed their fifty year mark away from Alagaësia. They had come a long, long way. It was not a path full of total hardship, but it was one that did not also contain complete happiness. Still, Eragon felt a swell of pride at their achievement. Saphira's mind brushed his at this and Eragon felt her delight and sense of fulfilment. They had become leaders.

For in the last fifty years, Eragon and Saphira – and with the help of the older Eldunarya, they had taught a great number of Dragon Riders- most of whom were as young as he when he had first found Saphira in the Spine. In these few moments of deliberation of their achievement, Eragon wondered if he had proven himself to be a leader. Had Oromis been right to appoint him so? It was a great task, its responsibility almost a palpable enormity.

As soon as the thought crossed him, Saphira instantly obliterated any doubts with the equivalent of a tail swipe of her mind. _You have proven yourself time and time again, little one. And the past five decades we have spent here has transformed you into the Rider ones such as the likes of Oromis and Brom would be more than proud of. _

Knowing Saphira had intended those words to heal the cuts of doubt of his mind, and also to comfort him; Eragon could not help but feel gratified by her words. He inclined his head, _thank you Saphira. _

She accepted it kindly in response.

Although many years have numbed Eragon's grief for his loved ones- Brom, Garrow and Oromis; whenever thoughts of them struck him, he could not help but still feel the anguish of their loss. All of them had been like fathers to him. Each had taught him about life; its intricacies and meaningful ways. He had learnt a great many invaluable teachings; most if not all he practiced to achieve properly throughout his years. If only they could see him now, Eragon thought with great sadness. He had accomplished many things, but what accomplishments were they if the very people he did them for were not there?

Eragon shook his trail of thought as he began to meditate. It was a new day and he wondered at what it would bring. As Eragon settled into his Rimgar stance, his mental defences were probed. Flinching mentally, he fortified his guard doubly and prepared to attack.

_Eragon… _a deep voice greeted. Surprised, Eragon restrained his attack and receded slightly. The voice belonged to the ancient dragon Umaroth.

_Ebrithil, _Eragon responded respectfully, as Umaroth's mind reached out to him. The dragon's mental consciousness was immensely vast. It pulsed with absolute authority and power. Upon mental touch, Eragon felt the experience of a hundred lifetimes and he felt miniscule compared to the mental enormity. Saphira's mind edged closer to the link and Eragon felt her greeting the older dragon through their bond. From the mental connection, Eragon was awed at the extraordinary mental defence that Umaroth displayed. In a human or an elf, the barrier would be like steel gates at best. But, a dragon's mental defence was far greater. Umaroth's mental defence was the equivalent of a grand castle stronghold. It was impenetrable.

_Come to the Hall of the Eldunarya, _said Umaroth, his voice resounding in their minds. The ancient dragon allowed some emotions to seep through his words and Eragon jolted at the evident thread of alarm lacerating his tone. He desperately wanted to ask if there was trouble, but fifty years of practice had honed Eragon's questions to be restrained until the appropriate time is presented to ask them. But as if sensing his question, Umaroth provided an indication of an answer. His mind seemed to say yes.

Acknowledging, Eragon immediately replied, _we will come swiftly, Master. _

Umaroth gave the mental equivalent of a verbal nod and his mind receded from Eragon's. The action was like a tidal wave withdrawing from a silent shore. As Eragon deliberated Umaroth's words, his instinct warned that it would not be something good. At least, the dragon divulged as much. Saphira felt the alarm in Eragon. _What do you think it is? _She asked, anxious herself. Through their bond, Eragon felt Saphira's wings slice through the air as she approached his location with sharp speed. As Eragon tidied his belongings and strapped his sword's sheath into his belt, he responded with the same evident concern, _I do not know. _

Eragon saw the streak of sapphire across the sky and Saphira landed in the clearing infront of him. She was magnificent, her scales dazzling in the morning light. Eragon took three bounding strides and leapt on the saddle with ease. In the same second, Saphira's wings unfolded and she shot to the sky. The air around them whistled. From high in the sky, Eragon saw several dragons flying through the clouds. His enhanced eyesight also allowed him to see the Elves and the Riders' figures below. Normally, he would survey the land with Saphira – she would be a sapphire jewel soaring across the sky. But duty called them to Du Skulblaka Breaol. The Home of the Dragons. The grand white hall where all the Eldunarya were kept.

From half a league away, Eragon could already distinguish the great white pillars that rose resplendently towards the sky. The marble pillars reached over fifty feet high and expanded fifty feet across. From above, it was breath-taking to behold. Although the hall was immense, its core was their destination – the place where hundreds of alcoves had been carved in order to accommodate the numerous dragons' hearts of hearts. Saphira approached the massive marble building and in the centre – where the Eldunarya were situated – an immense open rooftop welcomed them. The gap spanned the hall's length.

When this had been in its early construction, some of the Elves had deliberated whether the main hall should have a ceiling or not. Eventually, all – including Eragon – came to a decision that it should not. Already living within a gem, Eragon thought it would be more pleasing for the Eldunarya to be able to gaze at the wonder of the skies – their true home. When it rained, millions of droplets would fall into the main hall like glinting silver. It was an astonishing, wondrous sight.

As they flew high above the grand hall, Eragon could already perceive the brilliant gems gleaming in their alcoves. There were just over a hundred of them and they all ranged in sizes and colours. Each one was magnificent in its own way. But amongst one of the biggest gems was a stark, luminous white eldunarí. It belonged to Vrael's dragon, Umaroth. Its shiny facets glinted against the sun and it looked like a glowing diamond.

Saphira began her spiralling descent into the hall. There was no problem with space as the open rooftop spanned the length of the hall. Over fifty feet high, Eragon was still continually amazed at the sight of the robust pillars stemming from the ground. As they passed the invisible line of the ceiling, Eragon's breath caught in his throat as he beheld more Eldunarya. They were absolutely glorious and they all sparkled with vivid radiance. As Saphira approached the largest alcove – where Umaroth's eldunarí was situated, Eragon felt as if a pair of obscured hundred eyes observed him. He felt slightly conscious under the heavy scrutiny, but he did not let the notion slip into his expression.

Finally, Saphira reached the alcove, landing on the raised platform opposite Umaroth's eldunarí. Eragon leapt from his saddle and walked towards the white eldunarí. Greeting the ancient dragon first in the Ancient Language, Eragon and Saphira's voice combined as one, "Atra esterní ono thelduin, Umaroth Ebrithil."

The enormity of the ancient dragon's mental presence encompassed dragon and rider, _Mor'ranr lífa unin hjarta onr, Eragon Shur'tugal, Saphira Bjartskular._

"Un du evarínya ono varda,"they replied and Eragon gave a slight bow. Umaroth's eldunarí gleamed brighter in the sun. He wasted no time for other formalities.

_You are eager to know why I have called for you, _Umaroth said, his voice mildly impassive but it reverberated loudly in their minds.

"Yes, Ebrithil."

There was a brief silence before Umaroth spoke again. His voice was low and if Eragon was correct, concern tinted it.

_A great malice stirs in Alagaësia, _the ancient dragon rumbled.

Surprise, alarm and trepidation blossomed simultaneously from Eragon and Saphira's link. Questions quickly formed in Eragon's mind but he refrained from asking just yet. Umaroth continued, _As you well know, Alalea and Alagaësia are sister lands. Alagaësia earth pulses within the veins of Alalea. Although the connection is incredibly weakened by the vast distance of the seas – it is still there. Pulsing, live – a heartbeat. As we have been long been acquainted in merging ourselves with the land, we – _referring to the other Eldunarya – _perceive_ _the subtle changes, the shifts in nature. _Eragon remembered the knowledge from one of his discussions with the dragon a long time ago, back in his early years in Alalea. He knew that Alagaësia could somehow be felt by the Eldunarya – their sense of awareness went to a level more profound and inexorable than Eragon could ever imagine. It was an ability that continued to awe him. _Over the last few weeks, we discerned several alterations of balance in nature. If the connection had already been weak, it has become even weaker._ Umaroth paused before uttering faintly, _Alagaësia is unsettled._

Eragon and Saphira froze. Umaroth continued, _we observed the land for several days, diligent and acutely aware to distinguish any signs or indications of further changes. It was an intricate and testing task – one that pushed all of our ability to connect with the land. But we succeeded. _

At this point of the narration, Eragon was greatly anxious. Umaroth's words left a cold feeling within him. The ancient dragon was silent for a few transitory moments and then he uttered sonorously; _The Unnamed Shadow roams the land._

Immobilised, Eragon could not restrain the concerned emotions that spread like wildfire. Likewise, he felt Saphira's mind also jerk in response. Over the last fifty years, Eragon had devoted some of his time in reading scrolls. Thrice he had come across the tales of The Unnamed Shadow. The scrolls were rare and Eragon doubted that even the minds of the greatest scholars in Alagaësia – perhaps save for the few oldest – knew of The Unnamed Shadow. The information was difficult to find. But if what Eragon read was true, then it did not bode well for Alagaësia.

The Unnamed Shadow.

It was an evil entity - a great cloak of smoke that sought to obliterate the living. The Unnamed Shadow was often mistaken for several shadows because of its multiple tendrils. These tendrils appeared like separate forms of shadow. But it was just one single entity - and an extremely dangerous one.

His mouth too dry to form speech, Eragon could only let their immense surprise filter through their mental link.

Umaroth acknowledged it and he seemed to nod disdainfully in response. _The Unnamed Shadow: a terrible malevolence that had roamed Alagaësia a thousand years ago. _

The words came unbidden to his mind and Eragon continued, _Alagaësia birthed it as the very first Order of the Dragon Riders arose. The pact between dragon and man unbalanced the power of nature. And thus, Shadow emerged. Its purpose was to cause pain, to _induce _pain. It fed from it. It acquired power from people's fear and sorrow. _

_One of the greatest feats that Eragon I and the rising Riders accomplished – they defeated it. _Eragon spoke what he remembered reading and quoted exactly, _"It was the greatest evil Alagaësia had known. Many perished during The Time of the Shadow."_

The quote was ominous and even Eragon felt an apprehensive shudder run through his entire body. It filled him with dread. Saphira shared his concern and Umaroth responded, _yes, the very first Dragon Riders united to defend the land. The battle between the Riders and the Shadow was long and arduous. But, good always overcomes evil. Together, the Riders drove the malice into the deepest of the underground of Alagaësia, forever to be sealed within._

The question burgeoned in his mind before Eragon had the chance to voice it. Even his mental voice seemed to shake with distress …_It has escaped?_

Umaroth rumbled and his voice combined with the hundreds of Eldunarya in the hall. The voices were deep and whisper-like, but there were many of them. The words sounded like the howling wind, portentous and fierce.

_No… it has been unleashed. _

**Encountering Evil**

It was late. The rain poured down heavily from the dark skies. The water was cold as it hit Tristan's flesh. He was supposed to be home an hour ago. His mother would be livid. Tristan turned another corner; into a shortcut alleyway he had discovered when he was five. The rain now pelted down and he grimaced as the puddles seeped into his boots. These were also only a few months old. He could always dry them when he got home. Although the sound of the rain was loud, Tristan heard the clatter of something heavy hit the ground. Swivelling towards the sound, Tristan perceived the chipped walls of the buildings on either side of him. Around him, boxes, trays and other miscellaneous items from merchants and neighbours clattered the isolated alley. There was no one here but him. There was a balding cat on top of one of the trays and it seemed to stare at him with knowing eyes.

Tristan shrugged and resumed his stride. He needed to hurry home. A couple of minutes more and his mother would not only be livid, but would refuse to let him in the house. Half jogging down the long alleyway, Tristan stopped abruptly as his eyes caught movement against the walls. It was dark, fleeting, but he was certain that something moved. He looked around. Tristan shrugged off his edginess as he continued to walk again.

Suddenly, there was a loud yowl and a rattle. Tristan swung around and his breath caught in his throat. Farther down where he had just come from, the balding cat hung in mid-air. Its tail was raised, as if it had been plucked upwards. Surrounding it, a black smoke floated in the air. There were tendrils forming from the smoke and it reached towards the suspended animal. The cat hissed and yowled, its paws swiping at nothing but smoke. Tristan could not move, could not even begin to react at the terrifying oddity in front of him. Abruptly, the cat's body twisted as if it was being wrung like a cloth. The cat ceased its moving almost immediately. Tristan was disgusted by the sight and revulsion rose in him like bile. The cat dropped to the floor, hitting the ground with an audible thud.

That was like a jolt to Tristan and he turned and ran. The rain continued to pelt him, as if shooting him down to the ground. The alleyway was long and he was only halfway through it. The pattering of the raindrops against the ground echoed the increasing pounding of his heart. He did not know what he just saw, but he was terrified. Tristan's legs burned but he was close to the edge. He could even see the faint light splayed across the street ahead. A sense of triumph began to form within him, but brusquely, a force as strong as the wind sucked him backwards. He yelped.

Tristan's elbows grazed the ground and he knew that he had hit the floor hard enough for them to bleed. He shouted as pain exploded behind his eyes. The impact took the breath out of him. His head hit the ground and dizziness shook him. Aware of the black smoke, the shadow surrounding him, Tristan forced himself to stand. But, another gust of wind assaulted him and his head hit the ground a second time, harder. The world spun around him, lines and shapes a vague haze infront of him. The rain did not help. The droplets appeared double in number and he felt as if he was underwater. But as his eyesight cleared somewhat, he perceived the shadow. It was enveloping, enshrouding him like a heavy blanket.

Through the din of the rain, Tristan thought he heard whisperings. It was foreign, the words mindless and incoherent. But it swarmed his head, filling him with a nauseating feeling. Tristan clutched his head and began to yell. His head felt like it was being sliced and cut. Cold tendrils drove into his mind like daggers and the whispers urged him to do something. Tristan shouted, but the sound was lost in the hammering rain. He ignored the whisperings, but his head resounded with constant ringing. It was as high and sharp as the mental tendrils enclosing his mind.

The pain reached its peak and Tristan complied, agreeing with the whispers. He implored for the pain to stop. The shadow commanded a word for him to utter and he responded fervently, only wishing for the torment to cease. As soon as the word formed in his lips, the pain stopped. Tristan breathed heavily and he could feel that the water had soaked his clothes. But, he did not care. He had hit his head earlier, but now his vision had cleared to normal. He looked down and saw red running down his arms. It was blood. He paid it no heed.

The whispers in his head had receded but they were there, silent and watching his movements. No, not watching. Dictating. Tristan emerged from the alleyway and headed home. It took him a minute to reach the front door of his home. The light from the windows was dim and he knew that his mother had waited for him. Tristan rapped loudly on the door three times. The rain had not stopped and he knew that most of the blood had been washed off. But it had also stained his clothes. A part of him knew his mother would be furious.

The door opened and revealed a short, plump woman. Her hair was tied haphazardly in a bun on top of her head and a few grey tresses fell on her face. "Tristan!" She reprimanded, her voice a high, almost shrilly sound, "What did I tell you about staying out too late?"

Tristan mumbled an apology, but his mother would not hear any of it. She ushered him into the house and once she saw the blood, her reproach turned into concern. "What have you been doing, Tristan? Why do you have blood all over you?" Her concern returned to admonishment. "I told you not to side yourself with those scruffy boys from the edge of town, they are no good!"

His mother sat him down on the kitchen seat while she rambled on about the no-good boys from outside of town. "I cooked you dinner as well! It's gone cold now." She bustled into the other room to get her stitching kit. "Well, you just have to stomach it."

Her voice was loud and it rebounded across the walls of their tiny house. Tristan found her voice annoying. "It's your fault anyway. You have those tatty boys as company and you end up with cuts on your arms." His mother had returned to the kitchen. She held her stitching kit in her hand and a few bandages. She placed them heavily on the table so her metallic stitching kit made a high clanging sound. "If your father was still here, I have no doubt that he would've seen you flogged for your misbehaviour. Staying late at night outside," she sighed impatiently as she grabbed a bowl and filled it with warm water. Tristan watched her with silent eyes. His arms burned from the impact against the floor and he was sure that a pebble had managed to lodge itself in his left arm. Still, the pain could be ignored.

His mother brought the warm bowl and sat next to him, scraping her chair against their concrete floor. She was still reproaching him, "Your clothes are wet too. I brought you those brand new shoes just last month and look what you've done to them! What a slap to my face – absolutely no respect for the hard work I do." Tristan's head began to throb, the whispers amplifying. He winced as he tried to shake his head at the shadow's order. It gave a deep growl and Tristan mentally cowered.

His mother unrolled the bandage until it was long enough and then she snipped it with the scissors. She placed it on the side and the scissors gleamed wickedly under the wick of light. Tristan eyed it cautiously. His mother reached for her needle and thread. "Now I have to stitch you up! What a waste of my thread. This is fine thread as well, so you better count yourself lucky." She began to stitch. Tristan merely twitched at the prick of pain. It was nothing compared to what the shadow threatened. "You're carrying the sack of grains to the market tomorrow. Don't expect that just because you have these little cuts on your arms that you'll be excused…" An itch began to form and Tristan felt his left hand – the one not being stitched move. His mother seemed to jostle him. Tristan could not help his hand as it reached the silver scissors. It was razor sharp at its tips.

His mother's voice rang in his hears, "Do you hear me Tristan?" Tristan's left hand enclosed the scissors. The whispers became louder; it was now a high fever pitch in his head. He should have collapsed on the floor from its intensity, but a force held him up. Tristan gripped the scissors tightly like a knife until his knuckles became white. "Do you hear what I'm saying to you? You have-" The shadow growled insistently in his head.

Tristan's left arm twitched and he swung. There was a choked, gurgling sound and hot liquid splattered across his face. A red haze settled around him and as he slumped in his seat, Tristan realized that his mother had never finished her sentence.

_One week later_

**Council of Alagaësia **

"Ismira Shur'tugal, Daughter of Lord Roran Stronghammer and Lady Katrina," the messenger declared as Ismira entered Ilirea Hall. Back rigid, head held high, the young Rider had the posture of a noble, but the manner and gait of a warrior. Ismira wore her Rider's outfit, appropriate for formal gatherings – an intricately woven tunic and dark chaps with dark red lining on the sides, the colour of her dragon, Latheria Bjartskular. Ismira surveyed the Hall.

Eight cream-coloured marble pillars held the vast ceiling of the Hall. Lining the sides were great every-burning lanterns. There were twenty on each side of the Hall and they emanated a soft waft of light that washed across the entire Hall. High above the lanterns were narrow windows with thick and enchanted glass. The Hall held such important people and great precautions had been placed in order to secure those inside. Without the enchantments in the Hall, Ismira thought them to be safe anyway – she had no doubt that each noble and Rider in the room has several safety wards already in place.

The Hall was impressive in its splendid simplicity. There were no useless clutter and the floor was marble and pristine. It was a particularly bright day and the light that penetrated the several windows of the Hall provided additional luminosity. The eight pillars in the Hall were about five men in a small circle in width and an imposing thirty metres in height. Four lined each side of the Hall and between the pillars was a long grand table.

Ismira discerned that eight other Riders had already filled half. Far at the other end, opposite the seated Riders, two throne-like seats were placed. Ismira knew them to be the seats of Queen Nasuada and Murtagh Shur'tugal. Also, Ismira perceived a large cushion placed near the seats – and around the Hall, several more. It was has been long established that the Werecats had a place in Ilirea Hall. If her knowledge was correct, it was an agreement come to fruition by Queen Nasuada assenting to the Werecats' terms for their aid in the Great War.

There were several Werecats in the room, they were all in their cat form and they appeared bored coiled in their cushions. Ismira spotted one asleep already. But no one paid them too much heed as they themselves did not bother to acknowledge anyone. Ismira found a valuable aspect in that – for they were free to do completely as they wish. They were not bound to anyone, no ties, and no allegiances. They were a free race. But, Ismira recognized the Werecat seated on the most prominent of cushions – King Grimmr Halfpaw of the Werecats. Despite their freedom, not even obliged to intercede in any disputes if they so desired, Ismira knew that such gathering would call even to the attention of the Werecats' leader. As such, he was seated at least with an amount of concentration surveying the Hall– unlike the others of his kin who just genuinely seemed uninterested.

Spanning the Hall's length, the wooden table was designed by a collaboration of Elves and Dwarves. It was very sturdy and intricate lines and glyphs snaked its entire surface. Ismira had only ever been in a few formal gatherings and when discussions lengthened in monotony, she always resorted to tracing the carved lines with her fingertips. She also thought them fascinating to look at.

Near the eight other Riders, Prince Audric, son of King Orrin of Surda and Nar Gazhvog, Leader of the Urgals sat silently. Although, Prince Audric appeared slightly restless in his proximity of the large Urgal. Only a few years past adolescence, Prince Audric appeared as handsome, dignified and proud as his father. Ismira briefly wondered if the Surdan King's ill health had progressed to its utmost severity that he could not even attend such an imperative gathering. On the other hand, Nar Gazhvog appeared fairly at ease. He did not seem uncomfortable being near humans and creatures not of his race. If at all, he looked ready for battle. He wore large armour and even from his bulky movements, Ismira knew that with a twitch, he could send Prince Audric with only a swat of his hand. Although Urgals were now acknowledged as allies, Ismira was still cautious of them. She knew that their race were particularly fond of bloodthirsty violence. Nar Gazhvog took a large amount of space. He had a specially crafted seat, suited for his enormous size. In a fleeting moment of amusement, Ismira thought that he looked hilarious seated motionlessly.

As Ismira sat on a seat next to her fellow Riders, she acknowledged each of them with a nod. As standard proceedings of such a paramount council, each entrance had to be announced by the messenger. As Ismira perceived only the Riders and Prince Audric in the Hall, she knew that Riders of higher rank than her would begin to enter. As far as she knew, there were five other Riders of higher rank than her in Ilirea – the rest of the senior Riders were away in Alalea.

However, their most senior, the first Rider of their generation to have succeeded through the dragon training – Berathor Shur'tugal would be present in this council. Berathor was the fourth Rider of Alagaësia after the Original Trio – the Riders who lived through and survived the terrible reign of the dark King, Galbatorix. Amongst the three Riders, there was Eragon KingKiller – whom Ismira was proud to call Uncle, Murtagh Shur'tugal – now husband of Queen Nasuada and Queen Arya of the Elves.

As two more Riders entered, Ismira momentarily reflected back on her great surprise the day she found that Queen Arya – their Head Rider in Alagaësia was the woman her uncle loved. She recalled upon the first day her uncle showed her around his home in Alalea and seeing the fairth of the beautiful female elf amongst her uncle's most valued portraits. It was only after a moment's deliberation that she realized that the fairth was of Arya Shur'tugal. Upon her return to Alagaësia a few decades ago, she could not help but feel familiar every time she saw the Rider Queen. Ismira had wondered who had left who, or if both had chosen to go their separate ways. But she could not forget, could not deny the deep sadness that flashed across her uncle's eyes when she had questioned him about her. That alone confirmed for Ismira that her uncle had never stopped loving her.

Ismira snapped out of her reverie as the grey-haired messenger – whom she knew was called Jarsha – announced the entrance for their most senior Rider, Berathor.

With a confident gait, Berathor was one of the most admired Riders. Served as one of Queen Nasuada's youngest commanders- then at twenty six- during the Great War, Berathor had already been high up the human rank ladder. When he became a Rider, it boosted his peers' admiration for him.

Berathor had a wide face with short dark hair. Sometimes, he let it grow past his ears, but Ismira remembered her uncle advising the male Riders in her group not to sport such long hair for it may affect their sight during intense combat. Although he was human, Berathor's ears were slightly tapered – the subtle curve the only hint of elven features. Ismira had the chance to converse with him on a few occasions and had found him to be of a good and polite manner. His leadership skills were unquestionably extensive and Ismira knew that he had the commitment and charisma to lead. As Berathor sat down, he greeted all of the Riders in the room by their names, followed by a swift nod of acknowledgement.

Normally, Ismira would be striking up a conversation with one of the Riders, but the formal council dictated that respect was to be shown as each rider and leader entered the Hall. So the room was silent, the only sound was the messenger declaring the names and the barely audible footsteps as they entered the Hall. As Ismira surveyed the room, she acknowledged that there were no guards lining the Hall's width and she smiled inwardly. More than half the people in the room were some of the strongest and deadliest warriors amongst Alagaësia. If anyone should come in intending to harm any of the people in the room, they would be executed in a blink.

After Berathor had entered, King Orik of the Dwarves followed, his mighty hammer, Volund strapped dangerously in its pocket. Ismira smiled. The Dwarven king was stocky and short – as his kind was known for and his beard was long and course but braided. His crown sat comfortably on top of his head. Dwarves did not possess elegance in their movements, Ismira thought as Orik took the seat on the left-hand side of the two thrones. But, gruff as he appeared at times, Ismira was fond of the Dwarven King. He was like an uncle of some sort to her - her father and her uncle Eragon were close to him. She remembered on her birthdays – before she had even become a Rider – she always received a present from the Dwarven King. As Orik settled in his seat, he caught Ismira's glance and smiled faintly.

Ismira tore her gaze away from Orik as Jarsha announced the next entrant. "Arya Shur'tugal, Queen of the Elves, Ruler of Du WeldenVarden."

Ismira acknowledged that the Rider title superseded her identification as an Elven monarch. It was rightly so, Ismira supposed. Ultimately, Riders were more powerful than Kings and Queens. Despite entering the Hall first, Riders were not entirely bound to the monarchs of Alagaësia. But they did look to _their _Leader, the Head of all Dragon Riders – Eragon Shur'tugal. Long ago before he had left Alagaësia, Eragon had made a treaty with the rulers of the land that did bind the Riders to carry out duty over the land. Although Riders were ultimately free to do as they wish. However in order to maintain harmonious peace, Eragon's established allegiance with all the leaders meant that Riders were obligated to follow their duty. As such, they were seated in Ilirea Hall to discuss matters regarding the land.

As Queen Arya entered the Hall, all eyes followed. Ismira admired her but there was a feminine part that was envious of how she always stunned her audience. A tall and beautiful woman with bright and always seemingly burning emerald eyes – the Elven Queen made a striking appearance. Her emerald sword Támerlein hung from her belt on her left side. Dressed in royal tunic lined with gold threads – fit for a Queen – and dark, leather chaps, Arya Shur'tugal was known to abandon royal dresses for a warrior's outfit.

As well as the elegance and grace in her movements from being a Queen, Arya Shur'tugal was also a warrior. There was a danger to her gait; a coiled viper that always seemed ready to attack. From tales Ismira had heard of her, she knew that Arya Shur'tugal was one of the deadliest warriors in Alagaësia. As the Elven Queen gracefully walked the length of the Hall, Ismira briefly recounted some of her feats. Like her uncle, she was a Shadeslayer – a difficult feat and she had not even been a Rider then, she learnt under the tutelage from one of the most renowned and powerfully ancient Dragon Riders, Oromis Shur'tugal. She accepted the yawë, an Elven symbol and obligation of duty and became the Elven Queen on her 103th year – extremely young for a Ruler of an entire nation. But she had managed and she had prevailed. As Ismira recounted her feats, even she felt the gravity and significance of her actions. Like her Uncle, she had exceeded expectations and had given more than what was required. Although females both admired and were envious of her, Ismira also felt sadness. To follow duty was noble, but what was to life without its basic joys?

Queen Arya was known to rarely smile, her demeanour always impassive, her voice almost perceptibly devoid of life. She was beautiful, striking, the best of warriors – but there was emptiness about her. As the Elven Queen took her seat on the right side of the two thrones, Ismira and all the Riders gave a subtle nod in her direction. It was a silent show of respect. Normally, each would have greeted her first in the Ancient Language, but the formalities would have taken far too long. The Elven Queen acknowledged their nods and responded accordingly in return.

As the Hall waited for its last two entrances, everyone glanced at the grand doors. Jarsha announced with a booming voice, "Murtagh Shur'tugal and Queen Nasuada, Rulers of Ilirea." The doors slowly swung open and revealed two figures. Side by side and formally linking arms, Queen Nasuada and Murtagh Shur'tugal entered the Hall. Queen Nasuada wore a deep-red dress, the thread and stitch work perceptibly fine and impressive. It was a beautiful dress, Ismira thought. The colour of the dress reminded her of Latheria's scales – her scarlet coloured dragon. Queen Nasuada looked in her prime. Her dark olive skin was smooth, her face displaying no sign of old age. As a human, she would have been in her 68th year, but her union with Murtagh Shur'tugal had considerably slowed her ageing. Ismira knew that the likely method used was the power of an Eldunarí – a Dragon's Heart of Heart. Ismira wondered how many the Red Rider possessed. She had only learnt of the Eldunarya on the final years of her Rider's training. It was a vital and highly secreted knowledge. Ismira knew that only a small handful outside of the Riders knew of the Eldunarya. They were dangerous if such knowledge fell on the wrong ears. Like Queen Arya, Nasuada had assumed the role as the Varden Leader – the group that had opposed the Empire Galbatorix created – at a very young age. She too had her own outstanding list of achievements. One Ismira particularly admired was her feat of the Trial of the Longknives.

Murtagh Shur'tugal on the other hand was dressed in his royal tunic and dark leggings. The threading on his tunic was lined with red, but brighter – ruby coloured; the same as Thorn, his dragon's colour. Murtagh Shur'tugal was quite a handsome man. His dark hair was a glossy mane under the light that swathed across the Hall. He had the gait of a predator and a demeanour of a proud man.

But Ismira did not know his story. She only knew that he had once been forced to serve Galbatorix – had once been his right-hand Rider. That was why Ismira recalled the temporary uprising when Murtagh became a joint ruler of Ilirea. Not many trusted him, but Ismira knew he had fought hard to earn it from those who had.

As the Hall finally welcomed its last two entrances, everyone shifted in their seats. Ismira surveyed the Hall. Everyone was finally here. The Riders were in one end of the long table and along the left hand side of the table were some of the Riders then Nar Gazhvog, Prince Audric and King Orik- he was on the left of Queen Nasuada. On Murtagh's right, was Queen Arya and seated next to her was Berathor. From Berathor's side, there were more Riders. This was Alagaësia's leaders and Riders, save for the Riders away in Alalea and her father, Lord Roran Stronghammer. Content to stay and manage Carvahall and the Spine, her father was not ultimately interested in discussions of politics and other matters. He rarely had. Although a great and renowned warrior, Ismira knew that her father was content in peace with her mother, farming and in the countryside rather than living in a bustling city. So upon her last visit to Carvahall, her father had instructed her to speak on behalf of him on today's council.

Acknowledging the whole room with a surveying gaze, Queen Nasuada began, "I welcome you all to Ilirea – Werecats – King Grimmr, Prince Audric, Nar Gazhvog, King Orik, Riders and Queen Arya," she addressed the groups accordingly, "We have convened here today as the Council of Alagaësia to discuss matters of the land - significant matters…" she paused briefly, "…requiring the utmost attention."

"The Council rarely demands the imperative presence of such a high amount, but alarming news have emerged from all over the land. But before we discuss such the crucial matters, each leader is required to impart news of their land," said Nasuada, her authority seeping through her words. Normally news of the land would be discussed regarding other countries beforehand; Ismira knew that none probably had the chance to hear of it since all leaders were swiftly called to Alalea. Therefore ambassadors would not have had the chance to travel to each country delivering and receiving news. So, ultimately the Council of Alagaësia was the perfect place to discuss each and every news concerning every nation.

And so, each leader took turns disclosing their news.

On behalf of her father's position, Ismira imparted what her father had told her. Carvahall was undisturbed and life was as usual. However, her father told her that there had been recent reports of animals emerging from the deep corners of the Spine. This was startling news. Although the Spine was recognized as a dangerous place, it was also almost unheard of that animals came out of it. When her father told her of this news, Ismira had been surprised, and her surprise escalated when her father said that the animals came out not only because of disturbance, but also to prey on humans. As she repeated this news to the council, shock seemed to reverberate throughout the Hall. Ismira noticed Queen Arya's slight shift and her subtle, but discernible frown as if the news jolted her. But discussions about the news would follow after each leader disclosed their reports. The Urgal Leader was next to speak.

Nar Gazhvog briefly explained of his kind's need for conflict – although it was already well established that Urgals were nefarious for violence – and that their numbers had been on a steep decline recently. Their need for violence ran deeper than desire, Ismira thought. It was ingrained to them – a seemingly natural instinct for each Urgal and Kull. Nar Gazhvog continued, explaining that his race - especially the men - were growing restless without violence. Fighting each other was not enough. Each of the leaders shifted discernibly in their seats as this was uttered. If the Urgals did not fight each other, they would soon turn to other nations to fight.

Next was Prince Audric. Ismira knew he was inexperienced in such gatherings, but he was taught well. Relatively composed, Prince Audric spoke of his father's grievous health. The best human spellcasters and healers had been sent to aid the Surdan King and even Ismira was surprised when Queen Arya quickly interceded that she had even sent a few Elven healers to Surda to aid. The steep decline in the Surdan King's health meant that Surda was currently devoid of their leader. Although taught and guided, Prince Audric seemed as if he could not handle an entire nation. At the moment, Surda was managed by Prince Audric and King Orrin's closest advisors. Prince Audric himself was uncertain if his father would heal. In his old age, Ismira would not be surprised if the Surdan King should decline further in health.

As Prince Audric imparted his news, Ismira fleetingly perceived a bitter glance thrown at Queen Nasuada's direction. She knew the root of that bitterness. While Queen Nasuada could remain in her youthful years, his father was dying. Ismira remembered that this also had been the first of disputes among the leaders. If Nasuada should be allowed to live longer; why are not other humans allowed the same? Ismira could understand, for her parents were human. But, she knew that her parents too were in the same position as Nasuada. Her uncle had placed enchantments around them that allowed them to live significantly longer. But, her uncle's morality and reasons could only go so far. He had only granted them a few decades, as opposed to Nasuada's immortality. In a few more decades, Ismira knew that her parents would feel the strains of old age. She felt guilt, but gratitude as well that they had several more years ahead of them. So, she could understand and empathise with the Surdan Prince's situation.

As well as his father's ill health, Prince Audric had also imparted alarming news. Recently, there had been an uprising in their country. News of deaths by murder had risen considerably over the last few months. Prince Audric could give no explanation as to why. All nations had been prosperous ever since the pact of peace between leaders. Resources, food and trade were efficient. No country suffered in debt or in economy. Everyone worked for their money, for their own trade. Corruption however, although endeavoured to be evaded, could not entirely be erased. So the murderers had no true cause for their killings apart from the fact that they simply_ wanted_ to. The murders had in turn, disrupted the peace of the country and there was a palpable restlessness for Surdan citizens.

Next was King Orik. Dwarves lived underground as was their kind, but over the last few years; some had chosen to venture out into the open. Although, they were still rarely seen in human and elven cities – Dwarves liked their mines and deep undergrounds. King Orik then began to explain Dwarven politics, how the other clan leaders were growing restive of the nearby Urgal lands killing their animals. At this Nar Gazhvog bridled and claimed that his people needed animals as foods as well as they do. Further invoking the Dwarven King's temper, Nar Gazhvog stated that if they required food, they should have better hunters. Responding to his assertion, King Orik banged on the table and stood. Before the situation could get out of hand, and before Prince Audric could be pulped by the two heavy-handed creatures on either side of him, Nasuada called the Hall to order.

The Riders shifted in their seats, ready to spring into action if physical conflict arose.

But eventually the Hall calmed and King Orik continued on his account. He disclosed that their banished clan, the Az Sweldn rak Anhûin were causing trouble for the other clans. Banished for attempting to assassinate her Uncle - a Dragon Rider during an amicable visit to Tronjheim a long time ago - Az Sweldn rak Anhûin had still refused to replace their Grimstborith, a dwarf called Vermûnd. Therefore they were still spurned by the other Dwarf clans. But as of late, Az Sweldn rak Anhûin fought them. The Dwarves, infamous for their temperaments responded "accordingly" in turn. As King Orik finished his report, Ismira could not fail to acknowledge that so far, restlessness and violence throughout each nation was evident.

However, her trail of thought was proved wrong when Queen Arya imparted that no news of significance to the Council concerning the Elves were relevant. But she said that nature seemed to be disturbed, especially on the northern fringes of the Du WeldenVarden forest. Birds and animals of all sorts were restless, and the Elves, despite their closeness to nature could not identify the source of their agitation. Although Prince Audric, Nar Gazhvog and King Orik did not seem to regard the news with the greatest concern involving the Elves, the other Riders seemed alarmed. Ismira knew that from their Rider studies that animals were great indicators of nature's disruption.

Berathor announced no new information, save for the piece that Queen Arya had already imparted. Ismira too had noticed a change in the environment, the nature around her. If the whole world had previously been a lit room, it was now dimmed. It was as if a thin veil had enclosed the land. It was an ominous thought and Ismira could not help shudder when she thought of the world being a confined space. As each leader acknowledged each other's news, Queen Nasuada finally took charge of the discussion.

She too imparted of reported restlessness within the land. Ilirea had seen a rise in murders over the past few months and her spies have informed her that the Black Hand – a previously nefarious group of dangerous warriors serving Galbatorix – had seen a rise in activity. Although Galbatorix had been overthrown, news of his loyal followers and servants still plagued the land. They opposed the Council of Alagaësia and have been silently and cunningly reforming in the background, in the shadow of the prospering peace. Queen Nasuada said that the Black Hand had been causing trouble, causing rebellion.

The other news that followed was intriguing as it was disturbing. Queen Nasuada told of common people – normal working families killing each other. Ismira was repulsed by the news. Who could turn on their mother, their father or their children? There had been numerous killings within families and each of them quite brutal. Ismira shuddered inwardly when Queen Nasuada spoke of a young boy killing her mother with scissors by driving it into her throat. There was no explanation for the killings and there was no correlation between the murderers.

As news from each leader settled over everyone like a veil, the Hall came to an unsettling silence. Anxiety and trouble was almost palpable in the air. All news which had been imparted sounded grim.

Then, Queen Nasuada shifted in her seat and gave her husband, Murtagh Shur'tugal a sideways glance. The Red Rider had been silent throughout the whole meeting so far and now, he finally readied himself to speak. As Ismira looked at him more closely, she noticed the dark circles under the Rider's eyes, the tell-tale signs of sleep deprivation. There was an edge to his seemingly impassive façade as well, an edge that made him look slightly mad. Ismira could only conclude that trouble had been plaguing him. After hearing all the unfortunate and displeasing news from each leader, Ismira knew that the Red Rider's manner indicated of even graver news.

Although Riders and to some extent, the Elves as well, were attuned to the land, the news of nature's disruption was a surprise to all. The only indication that it was had only occurred in the last few weeks. The change was very subtle, but now all of the news was laid bare, Ismira knew that each Rider was admonishing themselves for not looking into it further. How could they miss such a momentous event? Overlook such shocking occurrences? As the Red Rider meaningfully surveyed the hall, she readied herself for the worse.

"The present seems bleak," said Murtagh. It was a true statement. The Red Rider looked at no one in particular. "As you are all well aware, the Council of Alagaësia has convened to discuss a matter of utmost importance. Each nation's ambassadors would have been briefly told of the message." Ismira saw the leaders nod. Everyone waited expectantly for the Red Rider to continue. He did.

Like a chant, Murtagh spoke his words with an almost poetic cadence, "_The ground grew black and brittle where we treaded and the air smelled of brimstone. It was a place where the land smelled of poison and the earth quake with frightening force. I remember Umaroth's warning ringing in alarm in my head, yet I could not help but take a step forward, a step into the dark chasm from which no light seemed to penetrate. As my feet touched the ground; shadows of a great terrible number screeched from the Earth; cloaked in_ _otherworldly_ _veils, they rose from the abyss like swift tendrils of the darkest smoke_. _After their arrival into the air, the abyss below us closed with a great tumult and an eerie silence pervaded the land."_

Although Ismira had heard of his account, she felt an ominous shudder run through her entire body. It made her anxious. The Red Rider's voice dropped into almost a whisper, "I ventured with Thorn to the northern parts of Alagaësia after the Great War." The piece of information was not new, but Ismira perceived the sadness belying the impassive façade. "I know not how it came to existence before me, but Thorn and I encountered something." The hall was silent; the audience enrapt. As the Red Rider uttered his next words, Ismira noticed that he used the present tense, as if what he spoke of _existed_.

"They had no physical form - they were pure darkness. They are terrible, foul and hostile," Ismira saw the perceptible shudder run through the Red Rider, "It has plagued me for weeks. I re-lived each piece of memory as if it had just happened." A pause. The Red Rider's voice was almost a rasp, "And I remember._ I remember everything._"

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>_ Just for clarification - Murtagh believes that he and Thorn encountered shadow**[s]**. But as I explained in the _Revelation _sub-chapter, it is not plural, but singular. It is _a _shadow. One entity. More will be explained in the upcoming chapter about it. For the meanwhile..._

_Leave_ a review? :3 And if you have any questions, feel free to ask.__

_**ExA muse song for this chapter**_:

_A lonely road crossed another cold state line_  
><em>Miles away from those I love<em>  
><em>Hope is hard to find<em>

-Dear God, Avenged Sevenfold

~Rocket


	5. Chapter 5

_Previous chapter ending excerpt:_

Like a chant, Murtagh spoke his words with an almost poetic cadence, "_The ground grew black and brittle where we treaded and the air smelled of brimstone. It was a place where the land smelled of poison and the earth quake with frightening force. I remember Umaroth's warning ringing in alarm in my head, yet I could not help but take a step forward, a step into the dark chasm from which no light seemed to penetrate. As my feet touched the ground; shadows of a great terrible number screeched from the Earth; cloaked in_ _otherworldly_ _veils, they rose from the abyss like swift tendrils of the darkest smoke_. _After their arrival into the air, the abyss below us closed with a great tumult and an eerie silence pervaded the land."_

Although Ismira had heard of his account, she felt an ominous shudder run through her entire body. It made her anxious. The Red Rider's voice dropped into almost a whisper, "I ventured with Thorn to the northern parts of Alagaësia after the Great War." The piece of information was not new, but Ismira perceived the sadness belying the impassive façade. "I know not how it came to existence before me, but Thorn and I encountered something." The hall was silent; the audience enrapt. As the Red Rider uttered his next words, Ismira noticed that he used the present tense, as if what he spoke of _existed_.

"They had no physical form - they were pure darkness. They are terrible, foul and hostile," Ismira saw the perceptible shudder run through the Red Rider, "It has plagued me for weeks. I re-lived each piece of memory as if it had just happened." A pause. The Red Rider's voice was almost a rasp,

"_And I remember. I remember everything." _

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5 - The Council's Decision<strong>

The Hall was silent for a few heartbeats, each leader and Rider silent, anticipating. Ismira's back ached from her stiff form. The air seemed to tense with the silence and the Red Rider leaned forward into the table, his expression impassive but his eyes betrayed him. They flashed with concern. His arms were rigid as his palms met the table surface. It was as if an invisible weight dragged his shoulders and he looked defeated. Ismira felt a stab of sympathy.

She had been told by her father that Murtagh had been once a good friend of her Uncle's. Forced into servitude by Galbatorix, he and her Uncle's history was no less than smooth. But Murtagh Shur'tugal had suffered severely under the tyrant King; he had been forced to execute people, had been ordered to capture and torture and if he had refused – pain would not have been so distant. If anyone deserved the title of 'survivor' in the room, it would be him. Ismira admired the steel strength he had – for how could one endure those torments and still live? Murtagh Shur'tugal was a broken man – but he had healed or at least, had numbed his terrible experience and memories.

As the Hall waited for Murtagh's next words, Ismira examined the audience. Everyone was enrapt… apart from one. Ismira subtly observed Queen Arya as she gazed upon Murtagh. There was a knowing gleam in her emerald eyes and they burned with ferocity. Ismira wondered if she was the only one who saw the flash of anger. But as soon as it had remained in her eyes, they were gone, replaced by a neutral façade. The curiosity lingered within Ismira. But it had to wait, for Murtagh straightened himself, again commanding the attention of everyone.

His voice grim, Murtagh spoke, "There are entities in this land. They are a part of it, yet not desired. I know not where they are now, but I know they are _here_."

Orik grumbled, rousing the audience, "Well, what is it?"

Murtagh gave the Dwarven King a deadly stare. It was as cold as his words, "They are Shadows."

Silence dominated the Hall yet again. Nasuada shifted slightly next to Murtagh, as if moving closer to him. Although their union was initially a surprise, it was undeniable that both loved each other dearly. Nasuada regarded the Hall with an amount of concentration, but her focus was torn into observing Murtagh as well. Although Nasuada was effective in hiding her expressions in formal situations well, Ismira recognized the concern of a woman for their man. She had seen it countless of times with human couples. However this indication only made Ismira more anxious. What could be so great a concern that even Nasuada, who she knew was great in wearing an impassive façade, could not hide her worry?

Murtagh resumed, "I am uncertain at what they have done or what they will do, but I know they are roaming the land. It is to my unfortunate fate that I had been the first to encounter them. I survived – unscathed physically, but the memories of them that still plague me."

Prince Audric, similar to his father, was not afraid to voice his opinion, "What exactly are we supposed to be worried about then?"

Orik banged on the table with a mighty force. Prince Audric seemed to jolt from his seat. The other Riders shifted uneasily. "Bah!" The Dwarf king exclaimed, "Do you not see? I am no creature of magic… but it is the Shadows."

Berathor spoke, "This is ill news indeed. I wonder Murtagh Shur'tugal... you have said that you have ventured into the Northern parts of Alagaësia no more than a few decades ago. Why have they only made their presence known now?"

"I know not," said Murtagh gravely. It was very fleeting, but Ismira caught a knowing look flash in the Rider's eyes. He was lying.

Ismira felt anger bubbling within her. Alagaësia was in danger because of him yet he did not divulge information that could be of use to them. Thousands of people could be hurt just because he wished to keep something secret. Before she could stop herself from voicing something she may regret, Arya's melodic voice filled the air.

"Until we know their purpose in this land, we will wait. But for now, at least we have an indication of what is causing the disturbances," Her authority seeped into her words and Ismira recognized the assertion of supremacy. "The Riders and I will inspect these… "shadows" and patrol the land even more diligently than usual. We will report back to the Council of Alagaësia as soon as we have gathered enough information."

Murtagh was the husband of Nasuada – who ruled Ilirea and the human kingdom, but in a political hierarchy, Arya Shur'tugal, Queen of the Elves, Leader of the Dragon Riders in Alagaësia was more dominant. It was unspoken, but everyone in the room, even Nasuada, recognized and knew her position. It was not a sentiment of fear, but more of a politically respected position.

"Very well," Nasuada spoke for the first time since calling the Hall to order, "We know the source, but not the purpose. The Riders will investigate and report back to the next gathering of the Council." She stood, regarding everyone in the room, trying to reclaim her authority, "For the meantime, I suggest that guards in streets double in number, more Riders be dispatched to populated cities of the land. If anything should happen, they would be there to help the people."

The leaders nodded their agreement. King Orik cast a look of resentment at Murtagh. Ismira knew that there was a long lasting disagreement between them – a memory that could not be forgotten. Murtagh Shur'tugal had killed Orik's foster father, King Hrothgar - the previous Dwarven King before him. And now, the cause of this new disturbance of the land was because of Murtagh. She imagined that the feeling would not be terribly amicable.

Prince Audric straightened in his seat, "I will impart these details to my Fa- King Orrin. I will inform the Council of his decisions."

Nar Gazhvog banged his armour-plated chest and said with a booming voice, "If these Shadows should desire a fight, we will give them a fight!"

Nasuada held her hand, "There will be no fight until we know enough. Do not rouse your nation for a battle that will not come, Nar Gazhvog."

"We will see, Lady Nightstalker," The Urgal said and Ismira heard the longing for violence in his voice.

Queen Arya spoke again, "It will take us a week to gather sufficient information. I suggest to the leaders not to inform their nations of this ill news. The last thing we need is uproar and chaos for something we have no reasonable explanation for."

Nasuada nodded her head and addressed the council, "Yes, it would not be wise to do so. Doubling troops without the public's notice would be difficult to achieve of course. However, it is a safer option. Look to recruit more soldiers if need be." Coming to the end of the meeting, Nasuada stood up, her voice loud and clear, "The Council of Alagaësia will re-convene in a week to discuss what is to be done about this. For now, we must remain calm and aid each other. If significant trouble should arise, I trust that each nation will respond accordingly. Council dismissed."

**Weapon of Hope**

The revelation about The Unnamed Shadow moved Eragon. He and Saphira had stood in bleak silence as Umaroth and the unearthly combined voices of the other Eldunari's uttered their statement. _It has been unleashed_. If his knowledge was correct, Eragon knew that Alagaësia was not a safe place if this entity roamed the land. Umaroth's mental presence agreed with Eragon's trail of thought.

_Yes… it is to our great shock that it had been_, Umaroth murmured, _But we can only assume that the Red Rider hadn't paid heed to my warning. _

Despite their amicable separation, Eragon felt a stab of resentment and anger towards his half-brother. Alagaësia had finally been at peace. Now, that peace would not remain. Eragon's heartbeat spiked. He could not let the Shadow harm his loved ones. As soon as the thought of Arya being harmed entered his mind, Eragon vehemently reacted. Not even meaning to do so, Saphira's voice also interlaced with Eragon as he spoke his questions in rapid succession, _"How long do we have? What weapon is there to destroy The Unnamed Shadow? How long has it been roaming the land? I shall gather all the Riders from Alalea – we will sail for Alagaësia as soon as dawn breaks."_

The Unnamed Shadow was the greatest evil Alagaësia had known. Eragon could not even begin to comprehend the solution to this dilemma. Umaroth rumbled and Eragon's apprehension subsided– albeit only slightly. _Eragon, Saphira…you must calm yourselves. _

_Calm? _Eragon repeated, his anxiety burgeoning like an unstoppable wave. Saphira was more composed, but her concern did not diminish the slightest. Eragon could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears. Flashes of terrible scenarios went through his head and Eragon endeavoured to subdue them. Visions of Roran, Katrina, Ismira and Arya suffering speared a hurt and anguish so deep in his heart that for a moment, he felt speechless. The misery and concern tightened a hold around him and his sentiments leaked through Saphira. She gave a whine of distress.

_Alagaësia is a dangerous land at the moment, _Umaroth murmured grimly.

Eragon discerned the tone in his voice and unable to help himself, he gritted through his teeth, "You mean for us not to go?" Echoing her rider's sentiments, Saphira let escape a low growl.

Surprisingly, Umaroth was not provoked but his mental voice was firm, _you will be battling evil itself and the chances of surviving this, Eragon and Saphira, are not very high. You are the strongest of the Riders – the Shadow craves the most formidable for it seeks the downfall of a challenging foe. A strong victim broken means overpowering misery. Many great Riders' demise had been caused by this Shadow. Now it has been unleashed, they will not be the last. _

Eragon did not even hesitate, _my welfare is the lowest priority at the moment. What good has been my training been if I cannot apply it to save the lives of many people? Alagaësia is in grave danger. How can you not expect us to fight?_

_It was expected, _Umaroth seemed to sigh, _but it is not advised._

Eragon did not want to fight with the ancient Eldunarí, but his feelings were turbulent and ferocious. He may be living in another land, but he had never abandoned his beloved ones - at least not in mind and spirit. If he could help it, he would let no harm befall them. _I do not mean disrespect, Master Umaroth, but I wish to fight. _

_There is more to this Unnamed Shadow that you do not know of, _said Umaroth gravely.

Straightening his back, Eragon and Saphira's voice combined and said, _then tell us more, Master_.

Mirroring them, Umaroth's voice intertwined with the hundreds of Eldunarís and the words rumbled in Eragon and Saphira's minds like omnipresent thunder, _It is no easy feat to defeat one such pure darkness. It has been done, but with grave costs. It is called The Unnamed Shadow for that is what it is. This entity has no name - or so what we have learned. As you know Eragon and Saphira, a life form with no name cannot be killed with magic and as The Unnamed Shadow has no physical form, it cannot be felled by hand. _

The revelation did nothing to alleviate Eragon and Saphira's great anxiety, but they were adamant on their decision. They were going to fight. But Umaroth's explanation was not sounding hopeful. Without a physical or figurative weapon, then how could they hope to defeat such a powerful entity? Still with the combined voices of the Eldunarís, Umaroth resumed, _but not all is lost, young ones. There is a tale of Lífaen and the "Eternal Weapon". We know not what the Eternal Weapon is, for many of the parchments accounting the story have been lost. Several poems and stories have been written about the time of the Shadow. However, the tale of Lífaen may the most important of all._

_Who was Lífaen, master? _Asked Eragon.

_Lífaen was but a mere Rider who found the Shadow's weakness. You may be able to find a very rare parchment in your study that contains some information of the Unnamed Shadow, Eragon. _

_Yes Master, _Eragon acknowledged and mentally noted the instruction.

_You also have a weapon of hope, _Umaroth continued,_ with you, Eragon and Saphira, is the knowledge of the Name of All Names – The True Name of the Ancient Language. With it, you may be able to name it and defeat it. _

The hope was a shining beacon in the talks about darkness. Eragon breathed a sigh of relief. _But, it is not the easiest task_, Umaroth murmured.

Saphira interjected, _But one we will endeavour to achieve success, master._

_I'm sure you will young ones_, Umaroth agreed gloomily. _Lífaen__ wielded the knowledge of the Name of All Names with the Eternal Weapon and managed to drive the malice back into the abyss. But none knew exactly how it was defeated, for the knowledge disappeared with the lost scrolls and parchments. You will be under time-pressure, Eragon_. _The Shadow does not linger – it seeks people. It does not need rest, it feeds from sadness, suffering and fear. And as you know, the human emotions are not the most formidable. Fear, sadness suffering are easy emotions to provoke. If one does not remain cunning and guarded, they may become a victim_.

_I advise you strongly Eragon, for the Shadow will not be the only enemy you will have in Alagaësia. There are many who will seek to destroy you once your presence is known – those who have remained loyal followers of Galbatorix and other servants of evil that the Shadow may employ. Your steps will be followed and your voice be sought. The Shadow promises the war and its pawns, the battles._

_I understand master_, said Eragon. Fear should be suffocating him, but he felt too numbed by the significant revelation. Feeling that time is rapidly escaping them, Eragon said, _is there anything else we may need to know, master? Will you come with us to Alagaësia?_

_I must remain here, _said Umaroth, _But take most of the Eldunarís with you. They will be the greatest source of energy you'll have. They will aid and assist you in your battles against the Shadow. And do not forget, time is of the essence. The longer the Shadow lingers, the more powerful it grows. And the more likely people may succumb to its darkness. The Name of All Names will help you in this perilous quest, but in the end, you will have to commit everything you have to this cause if you hope to succeed. The Riders will be of significant help but Eragon, I fear that some will not be able to survive. _

The gravity of Umaroth's words pressed upon Eragon and Saphira like a great suspended boulder over their heads. It seemed as if they were standing on the edge of the steepest cliff, waiting anxiously for the dive. The enormity of responsibilities and tasks lied ahead of them ominously. But Eragon did not waver under the thought, did not cower at the thought of commitment. If it should come to it, he will not hesitate to sacrifice himself. Eragon felt the urge to leave Alalea as soon as possible, but he needed to calm his mind and think properly. He will need to convene with the rest of the Riders. Plans must be made and departure was urgent. Eragon's worry deepened at every second that passed. Saphira anchored him to calmness, but he could feel that she too, shared the same anxiety. It lacerated their souls like a brand.

Eragon explained their plans to Umaroth and the Eldunarís and they agreed. Much was needed to be done in a short amount of time, for he and Saphira wanted to sail at dawn – which was only several hours away. Talíta_, _the magnificent vessel that carried him and some of the elves to Alalea, was to be prepared as soon as possible. The Riders also needed to be assembled and informed. Before leaving the Hall, however, Eragon took to surveying the rest of the Eldunarís. He gazed them with silence and in respect, he bowed deeply as a sign of goodbye. Saphira accompanied his bow with a loud roar and the Eldunarís returned their acknowledgement by roaring in mental union. It was time for farewells – for as soon as Eragon had gathered all the necessities for their journey and informed his students, they would then depart. Eragon turned to Umaroth, his Eldunarí a gleaming white. Umaroth spoke, his voice reverberating in his and Saphira's mind:

_This may be the last we speak for a while, Eragon Shadeslayer and Saphira Brightscales_, said Umaroth sorrowfully, _But you will need strength, courage and cunning to prevail against the Shadow. I trust you will make the right decisions – no matter how hard they may be. Alagaësia has not seen this evil entity for over a thousand years. It will look to remain permanently in the land, perpetually causing sorrow. You will need your wisdom, courage and strength if you want to survive. Eragon and Saphira; this is the greatest warning you should remember – anyone can fall into the Shadow's lures. If that should happen, and as difficult as it may be, do not trust anyone. _

_Yes master, _said Eragon and Saphira in unison.

Umaroth rumbled, _If you two should survive this feat, you will be considered one of the greatest Riders and Dragons to have ever walked Alalea and Alagaësia. _Surprising them both, Umaroth granted them his wishes and addressed them first in the Ancient Language farewell, _Atra esterni ono thelduin__, Eragon and Saphira. _

__Atra du evarinya ono varda_, master Umaroth_, Saphira flew to Eragon and landed infront of him. Leaping into his saddle, Eragon regarded Umaroth's Eldunarí, _Thank you master._

In their minds, Umaroth acknowledged their gratitude, _Remember, many of the Eldunarís will help you against the Shadow. Your knowledge, as is theirs, will be vital. I hope your quest goes well. Do not hesitate to trust your instincts, Eragon. The Shadow is a primal being and its actions will reflect that. Until the next several moons, young ones; farewell. May courage and strength be with you always. _

_We will not forget your warnings, master, _promised Eragon and Saphira, _Farewell. _

Unfolding her great wings, Saphira flew around the Hall. The sun rays through the windows hit her scales and she gave a mighty roar. The roar echoed around the Hall, and Eragon knew that it would be heard by the other dragons throughout the land. It was time to assemble and depart. The Riders would not be able to miss the evident call. As Saphira flew out of the Hall, Eragon looked to the horizon. It seemed as if the glistening sea awaited them, the vast expanse calm and inviting. Eragon could not wait to sail across the waters. He had dreamed of this moment. A sense of anxiety, longing and desire burgeoned within him. Despite the Unnamed Shadow – despite the immense evil and hardships it posed, there was one good thing about the whole ordeal.

Fate might've been cruel to what it promised for the future, but_… it found a way._

Allowing himself a smile, Eragon murmured her name in the wind, _"Arya." _

**Wolves' Gathering**

Anger. Arya hadn't felt it with such intensity for a while. She sat in her seat in Ilirea Hall. The Council of Alagaësia had been dismissed a few minutes ago after Murtagh imparted his news. The large doors of Ilirea Hall boomed as the guards swung the doors close. Arya faced Murtagh and Nasuada. Arya was supposed to leave before them, but a look on her face said that she was going to remain longer. There were only three of them. _And me_, voiced Fírnen distantly in her head. Arya's anger seemed to vanish for a second and she contained a soft smile, _and you, Fírnen. _

From their bond, Arya felt his dragon on the very outskirts of the city, flying in peace. He had been quietly listening to the Council of Alagaësia's discussion and spoke only a few times. Fírnen understood Arya's slight bitterness in the light of the current situation. Murtagh Shur'tugal had disturbed the peace. Peace which has so far, only lasted a mortal lifetime. Fírnen was a quiet pulse of presence in the back of Arya's mind. As Arya transferred her focus back to the current situation, her thoughts interlacing with Fírnen.

Murtagh's expression was sombre, but it did not diminish Arya's resentment. Nasuada regarded her neutrally, but concern tinted her eyes.

"What is it Arya?" she asked. The lack of informalities highlighted the fact that both women were friends. With only the three of them, the familiarity between all of them seemed to surge back naturally. Arya remembered well. They had all known each other since they were young – since the Great War. For that moment, they were not some powerful rulers or leaders, but just warriors of the war again. The young pawns who had been foolish enough to accept the mantles of immeasurable power and leadership.

"I wish to speak about the Shadows with Murtagh," responded Arya. The statement could've been interpreted that Arya wanted privacy but Nasuada remained firmly in her seat.

"You may discuss it with us both," said Nasuada. Murtagh glanced at Arya with an impassive expression. There was no burning resentment between the two, but unfamiliarity birthed uncertainty and uncertainty delivered doubt. Fírnen stated quietly, _and between two wolves, doubt is a dangerous thing. _

"Do you know anything about the Shadows?" Murtagh asked watchfully.

"No, but I know that Umaroth warned you not to venture into those parts of Alagaësia," Arya allowed her anger to surface to her eyes. She barely hid it from her countenance. Only fifty years of peace had passed. For mortals, those were prosperous decades. For immortals, it was but a fleeting time of serenity. Barely recovering from the dark years of Galbatorix' ruling, another threat posed itself. A threat perhaps bigger than even Galbatorix could have dreamed of unleashing. From Arya's knowledge, she seemed to recall a mention of such entity – her remembrance was vague, but somehow she felt as if Alagaësia was in a precarious position. Fírnen shared her sentiments. He too, endeavoured to recall the memory but it evaded him.

Murtagh bridled at the admonishment in Arya's tone. She may be powerful – both in political and physical strength, but Murtagh did not fear her. "You know not of my experiences, nor my reason for doing so."

Arya remained quiet at that. She respected Murtagh's decision to keep his reasons to himself. He wasn't obliged to impart them. Before Fírnen, a solitary person like her still recognized that and knew that some reasons were very personal. She would not ask of it unless it was absolutely necessary. But then again, duty was hammered into her mind like welded iron. However, such petty reasons should not cloud the judgement of reason. Secrecy was a dangerous business. Seeing it as her and Fírnen's duty to try and protect the land and its people, Arya wanted to know how much she could glean from the Rider.

"There _is_ more to what you know about these shadows," commented Arya warily. She had caught the look of edginess in his eyes when they had been discussing the shadows earlier. "You cannot hope to hide that kind of _fear_."

If Murtagh's back had been rigid before, it seemed unyielding now. He gazed upon her with a look of guardedness, "You notice much, Queen Arya."

Her countenance was as blank as her response, "As is required of me, Murtagh Shur'tugal."

Without breaking eye contact, Murtagh remained in his seat. Arya was not intimidated and returned the same calculating look. Murtagh was definitely hiding something but Arya knew that she will not be able to persuade him to impart it.

Fírnen commented with the slightest hint of subtle amusement, _this one is fearless._

Arya responded, _I think he has become so, after too much of it._

There was a tense filled silence and the Hall was suddenly painfully silent. Then Nasuada finally spoke, breaking the rigid stillness, "What do you think of these shadows, Arya? Are there not scrolls or parchments from the Elves that reveals about them? Should it be a cause for great concern?"

Her eyes fixed on Murtagh, Arya responded, "Anything unknown is undoubtedly a cause for unease." Evidently, she would not get the answer from Murtagh, so she must find other sources. Murtagh seemed unfazed by her verbal probing, but Arya recognized his wariness on his expression. Transferring her gaze to Nasuada, Arya said, "I am uncertain, Lady Nasuada. Fírnen and I must travel back to Ellesméra swiftly and see if there is anything that might be of use to our cause. However, I fear that not much is known. After a week of practical inspection, hopefully everything will be somewhat clearer."

"Yes, we must only hope," said Nasuada disdainfully.

"Unless you require my presence for any longer…?" Arya began.

"No," replied Nasuada.

"Then I shall be heading back to duty." Standing up, Arya said, "Until the next meeting, Lady Nasuada and Murtagh Shur'tugal." Arya rose to her full height and her diadem glistened as the sunlight struck her head. Murtagh responded accordingly, although he still wore an expression of guardedness. Nasuada returned a gracious tilt of her head, "May swift winds rise beneath Fírnen's wings and I bid you both a safe journey to Ellesméra."

Arya inclined her head in return and headed for the Hall's doors. She had so much to do in so little time. Fear burgeoned within her as she considered the implications and danger this new evil posed. The Riders were younger than her – in terms of Rider experience and she had no one to confide and ask advice from. She had to lead a nation and the Riders in whatever impending doom the future may present.

In that moment of quiet deliberation and as it had been of late, she felt like a lone wolf.

**The Tale of Lífaen **

The Rider's Hall was striking; a massive structure that was the complete opposite of the Eldunarís' dwelling place in the heart of Alalea. As large as the Home of the Dragons Hall and no less magnificent, the building was made of tall wooden structures and tightly twisting the vines that gave the Rider's Hall a formidable structure. With a great arching dome made of thick wooden trunks and with enchanted hard soil flooring, the hall had a distinct nature ambience. True to this -during the day- sunlight would hit the enchanted Hall and a glow would encompass the interior of the building, providing light. At night, great lanterns would be placed as substitute.

Further to the design, there was also one unmistakable feature that set the building apart from the standard gathering halls. The twisting wood which served as the walls had additional branches that grew to shape a large suspending alcove with a flat wooden floor. These alcoves were for dragons. They varied in size, depending upon the intonation of spell and the size of the dragon that would sit on it. The wooden floors in these alcoves were especially enchanted as a dragon's sharp talons could unintentionally scrape or dig a hole. It took Eragon, several spellcasters and Riders to perfect the spell and the direction of growth of the branches. But once it had been achieved, it was one of the greatest spells that they had created. As a result, Riders and their Dragons could both be present in the Hall.

As well as the front entrance of the Hall – which had huge wooden doors, were also two other secret entrances for dragons located at the front of the Hall, enchanted air ways that would twist the great wooden vines open if a dragon mentally stated their names. It was a clever enchantment, meticulously devised by Eragon and Umaroth. It was also the same enchantment Eragon applied for Saphira's entranceway at their tree house. Outside, the Hall's sides were lined with colossal trees and vibrant foliage. However, the entrance was left clear, with a wide and neat walkway leading to the entrance. On the pathway's edges were a column of small trees that were perfectly similar in size and number of branches.

Inside, a great circular table with equally fine chairs at its edges occupied the middle of the Hall. The table was very large and round in shape, for Eragon thought it would benefit discussions more, so everyone could perceive each other. In its natural grandeur, the Hall had been used for previous Rider events, such as the arrivals of new Riders in the land, a few gatherings with Alalean Elves and even for merriment – such as celebrations honoured in the graduation of trainee Riders. However when used for formal events, only a great circular table and chairs were present. Besides that, the Hall was not adorned with any other furnishings. But in its simplicity, it was pleasing to behold.

In the current meeting, about eight and thirty pairs of Dragon Riders - were present, including Eragon and Saphira. The alcoves were in full use, with eight and thirty dragons occupying each space. Eragon thought them quite amusing to look at, as the walls had to cleverly produce many alcoves, therefore constructing unevenly suspended platforms. All of the dragons were more or less seated comfortably while the last of the late-arrival of Riders took their seat around the table. Eragon sat at the seat directly opposite the Hall's entrance, facing it. Before Eragon proceeded to the meeting, he had swiftly travelled to his house, in his great study to search for a very old parchment – the one piece of parchment that contained the details of the Unnamed Shadow, in the tale of Lífaen. Little was written about it, for its continuation had been lost either in the Time of the Shadow or perhaps even earlier, before the Order came into full power or recognition. However, it contained vital information. As quoted by the unknown writer of the parchment, _"…The Unnamed Shadow roamed the land for many months, wreaking havoc, causing devastation. It encompassed Alagaësia with a dark veil, poisoning the land with its presence…"_

"_The Riders were affected by this walking misery, seducing them into helplessness. Many tried to make a stand, but they were divided. As the great poet Elyria wrote, "United they stood, divided they fell." And so, this was the situation for miserable uncounted days. Many of the Riders failed and fell to the powers of the Unnamed Shadow. But just when the land was beginning to lose faith, a mighty Rider named L__í__faen led a brave group of Riders to defeat the terrifying evil. They arose from the shadows of darkness, bringing with them the light of hope. The quest was no easy feat, for many perished in the final battles. _

_The War began to sway to the favour of the people, with the strength and fortitude of the Riders and their allies, the Unnamed Shadow was driven back. They had hope, for Lífaen had discovered the Eternal Weapon; the weapon that was to defeat the Unnamed Shadow. "Back into the void" they chanted in the Final War. It was a war of both blazing fire and utter darkness; a war of chaos and of horror. Through the difficult toils and sacrifices, the Riders fought for the freedom of the land. In an inferno of fire and mayhem, the Final War was fought in the northern edges of the land. _

_Lífaen, with the bravery of a true hero, battled darkness itself and upon realizing its weakness, plunged the Eternal Weapon into the Unnamed Shadow. With a mighty and terrifyingly beautiful explosion, the Unnamed Shadow was cast into the abyss, ridding the land of its evil presence. Lífaen and the Riders were victorious, but great victories come with great costs…_

The script ended there and Eragon could glean no more. He only had a single parchment. However, he knew that the "Eternal Weapon" had defeated the Unnamed Shadow. The battle had taken place millennia's ago and it would be excruciatingly difficult to track down the weapon. But the knowledge comforted Eragon, for he at least knew that the Shadow could be defeated. Saphira murmured, _but with the greatest difficulty. _

Eragon agreed, his mood becoming more and more anxious. The parchment described many losses and tragedies – he could only believe that this battle with the Shadow will be the same. As Eragon prepared himself to tell his students and the other Riders, he could not help but recall Umaroth's words, "_Many great Riders' demise had been caused by this Shadow. Now it has been unleashed, they will not be the last."_

The Hall descended into silence as Eragon stood, his expression rather sombre. When he spoke, his voice contained a hint of concern, "We have a gathering here today to discuss pressing demands." In his speech, Eragon caught Aráthiel's glance. She appeared very concerned and Eragon too, could not even mask the same concern on his face. For every second that passed, his heart struggled to bear the thought that Arya, Roran, Katrina and Ismira were in danger. It felt like an ice-cold knife being pressed against his chest.

"I have been informed by Master Umaroth, of ill news plaguing the land of Alagaësia," At this statement, several Riders let out an audible exclamation of concern. Some of the more senior Riders had grave expressions etched on their countenance. "Some of you may have read it in old scrolls or parchments - but this ill news is no recent presence."

"The Unnamed Shadow," Eragon stated, his voice descending into a low tone. "A very ancient force. A very dangerous and mighty foe. An evil being… is roaming Alagaësia."

And so, Eragon explained what he knew of the Unnamed Shadow and how it could be defeated. Questions were asked, concerns were raised, but Eragon felt every passing minute like a loud drumbeat. As they came to the conclusion of the discussion, Eragon leaned on the table and tried to catch every Rider's eye in the Hall. It was no easy task but Eragon managed to make the atmosphere feel even graver.

"Saphira and I sail for Alagaësia at dawn," said Eragon and noticed several surprised expressions. Evidently, they had not expected he would be leaving so soon. "We do not know this foe's weakness, but only that it _does _have one. That is enough for hope. I do not require any of you – especially trainee Riders," said Eragon, his eyes fleetingly glimpsing Aráthiel's boldly stubborn expression, "You or your dragon have not received sufficient training to be ready for such battles. You must stay here in Alalea."

A pause then a female voice rang out in the hall. As Eragon expected, it was Aráthiel. She looked fierce and defiant as she spoke, "What if we wish to do so anyways?"

Eragon's expression was hard, but surprisingly, his voice was gentle, "You may suffer. And that is not something I wish would befall on any of you."

Aráthiel's stubbornness seemed to have receded somewhat but she responded calmly, "But it may happen anyway."

The Hall was silent; each Rider seemed to be deliberating the gravity of the news. Eragon silently hoped that it would not come to this, but somehow he knew that Aráthiel would not be able to let the moment pass. He had weighed the circumstances beforehand and he knew that it would be best for trainee Riders to remain on Alalea. But on the other hand, they _have _had learnt sufficient training. They may not have properly perfected their capability as a Dragon Rider, but they were competent nevertheless.

As much as Eragon despised the thought, he knew that having additional Riders for support would be useful. As Eragon came to an acceptance and conclusion, he vowed that he would endeavour to protect the Riders as much as he can. It was an instinctive call to protect them, but strangely, Eragon felt a strong attachment to personally protect Aráthiel. She was so brave and determined but she did not know true suffering. In a way, Eragon saw a reflection of his younger self in her. He had to go through a lot, but in the end, he made it. He had survived.

And he was going to make sure that many Riders will.

Filled with this hope and renewed vigour, Eragon asked "Who is with me?" The question was a declared confirmation that every single Rider had a choice. Eragon would not force anyone to fight if they did not wish.

Eragon gazed at Aráthiel and saw the determination and evident answer in her eyes. That dark blue gleam of unyielding strength affected Eragon somewhat. He admired it in the face of their bleak situation. If not for the ubiquitous anxiety in his mind and heart, he would've smiled. A hint of a smile graced Aráthiel's countenance and she inclined her head subtley in response to Eragon's question; she would join him.

In fact, as Eragon glanced around the table, he saw it on every Riders' eyes. A determined look that told him he wasn't going to be alone in his quest. He was proud but he also felt profound misery at what the future may present. Eragon did not doubt Umaroth's grave words and he knew that some will perish in the quest. However, there was a burning hope in his heart, a great beacon of light that continued to remind him that they might be able to succeed.

And that was enough for the moment.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Song muse for this chapter:<strong>_

_So here we are, the witching hour,  
>The quickest tongue to divide and devour<br>Divide and devour  
>If I could end the quest for fire,<br>For truth, for love, and my desire,  
>My desire<em>

-Alibi, 30 Seconds to Mars

~Rocket


	6. Chapter 6

_Author's note: Listen to 'Kiss The Rain by Yiruma', it's beautiful. It provided me with the inspiration to write this chapter.  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6 - Under The Stars<br>**

It was the last hour before their leave-taking. The sky was beginning to darken, the clouds shrouding the land with a sombre atmosphere. The Riders had disbanded after the gathering and were now on their final preparations. They were expecting to leave at dawn, but the preparations had been swift and their promptness earned them the early hours of twilight. Eragon glimpsed several dragons streak the sky above and among them, he discerned Saphira's shimmering scales.

_After fifty years, we return to our home, _Eragon murmured to her mentally.

_Yes, at last. I sense the longing in you, little one, _responded Saphira. _Do not worry; the hour to return has come at last. _

Eragon smiled. _Yes it has. _

There were two trips to be made. The ship could only carry so much people and Eragon had deemed it safer that their arrival be in two separate journeys. Standing on the prow of the ship - the very same vessel which carried him and several other elves to Alalea- Eragon gripped the wooden railing. Intricate patterns were engraved delicately throughout the ship's design, running from the rear to the front. With his fingertips, Eragon traced the nearest group of engravings lightly.

Unlike the calmness of the sea, his heart battered wildly against his chest. It sent fierce waves of anticipation and excitement through his entire being. The ship carried heavy memories with it, ones which Eragon seemingly had embedded into his mind. Light-grey flashes of separation, distinct by sentiment, crashed through his memories like an unbidden remembrance. He had not felt the emotion fear for over fifty years, until now. Eragon felt anxiety, fear of seeing the woman he was forever yearning to see. _Arya. _Just the thought of her sent all kinds of fervent emotions running through his veins. Memories, strong and potent crashed around Eragon's mind; her dark cascading hair, her beautiful face, her piercing emerald eyes – even the tantalizing scent of her skin, fresh pine needles came unbidden to Eragon's senses. His heart gripped him vehemently, like a fearful excitement.

As a light breeze blew gently around him, Eragon inhaled shakily. What was the root of his fear? Excitement mingled with it, but it was fear that dominated his being; a relenting, gripping emotion which embraced him like a tight vine. He was anxious to see Arya. Anxious about what her life was like now, how she had been and how she might have changed. Is she still the same woman Eragon had left over fifty years ago? The same woman he had fallen in love with and still managed to keep loving, even in separation? He could not deny his strong feelings for her, nor could he ever forget that she had been an important person in his life.

But he could not deny the possibility… what if Arya had found someone else?

_Ah, _Eragon mentally sighed. That was the root of his fear. The dark, overwhelming emotion of apprehension that Arya had found someone else to be with. Although elves were immortal, they could love again, just like humans. It was the same difference really. Not even certain of her current situation, Eragon already harboured resentment and unbidden jealousy at whoever held Arya's heart. Maybe that's why he was anxious. Eragon was trying to prepare himself for the worst. To be ready to accept the fact that Arya may already be happy with another; to accept that without the need or desire to be with her instead. What kind of person would he be if he did not embrace her happiness? He loved her too much for that With Arya, Eragon had already admitted to many things, whether unwanted or not. He knew that her happiness would come first and that he would do anything for her.

And if that meant walking away so she could be with another, would be fine. It would wreck him, hurt his heart, but he knew he would. Why? _Because he loved her_. And that was enough reason why. Eragon smiled with sadness. He would embed these thoughts in his brain if he could. To remind himself that although he desired… yearned to see Arya, he had to be prepared to see her in any circumstances. As he let his trail of thoughts end, Eragon promised he would keep his smile when he will see her. Because that's all he would be able to offer her.

About him, Eragon examined the Riders moving like silent fathoms in the twilight. In the hazy distance, he observed figures cloaked in silver light under the lines of trees, shimmering like the moonlit waves. The Alalean Elves were watching their departure. It was not a joyous event; they had grown fond of the company of the Riders and even their dragons. So many of the Riders were departing; from their land and from their lives.

Beside him, Eragon heard footsteps. "We are ready, Ebrithil," It was Aráthiel's soft voice.

The ship rocked ever so gently as it left the shores. Eragon briefly turned around and faced the young female elf before him with a solemn smile. "And so, we shall go."

From the shadows of the trees upon the shoreline emerged Celebriän, the Alalean Elves' leader. Like his kin, he was cloaked in the same fashion, but his cowl covered his head and shadows covered his face. His actions seemed to exude the same solemnity as his people. He walked towards the ship and Eragon began to make his way to meet him, only to discern Celebriän raise his hand slightly. His voice was low but the breeze carried it to Eragon, "May fare winds grant you and your Riders a safe journey, Shur'tugal."

"And may good fortune and happiness look upon you and your people, Celebriän," returned Eragon. Under the darkening sky, Eragon thought he saw the Alalean elf smile. Eragon raised his hand and waved. Celebriän returned the gesture and with his keen eyesight, Eragon saw multitude of hands raise in farewell in the distance. A melancholy harmony rose from the land; it was a bittersweet yet uplifting melody which made the heart feel a ghostly grief.

Eragon turned his sight from the shore and into the skies and the sea ahead. The sea was flat and calm, a grey expanse that greeted them. Above, the dragons' flight sounded soft, gently mingling with the silent breeze. All was like a waking dream. . Under the silver moonlight, Eragon thought them to be like ephemeral shadows and figures which wordlessly glided and drifted like leaves upon a silent winter's lake. Aboard the ship with him, there were nineteen Riders. The rest would then soon follow. Eragon hoped that the journey would not take too long. He recalled travelling from Alagaësia to Alalea – it had taken them more than a fortnight's travel. However, with fair winds and a familiar mind he hoped the journey's duration would be halved – but one could only hope. Every moment that passed felt like a striking hammer.

Eragon had not moved from his spot – standing on the prow of the ship, he observed the sea ahead of them. Like a despondent fading dream, there was a poignant melancholy about the air, but Eragon also saw beauty in the moment. It was calm. But the night air began to lift from the seas and Eragon felt the beginnings of a cold night. He did not shiver, although as he exhaled, the air he breathed clouded around him, like a soft grey mist.

Eragon opened his mind slightly and sought the presence of those around him. Behind him, Eragon felt the slightest of movement. He realised Aráthiel had not left her spot either. She seemed to be echoing his movements, like a silent phantom behind him. He felt the other Riders' mind from his transitory exploration and as he extended it further, counted and felt the dragons' mind above. Some were in the water, silently wading. No water creature would dare swim to the surface while the dragons were present.

Satisfied with his observation, Eragon returned to the confines of his own mind. "It is cold, you should go inside," Eragon said, his voice barely a whisper.

With the same volume of voice, Aráthiel replied gently, "I wish to stay here."

Eragon nodded, the slightest tilt of his head acknowledging her response. He did not voice it, but it felt nice to have company. Moments passed.

"Well, if you're going to stay outside, you may as well come enjoy the view beside me," said Eragon, with a hint of a smile in his voice. There were no sounds of footsteps, it seemed as if Aráthiel glided over the wooden boards and stood next to him. He faced her and Eragon was struck by the moonlight's glow on her face. Aráthiel was truly beautiful. Her dark blue eyes gleamed like soft sapphires and they met Eragon's with an unwavering gaze. He smiled softly and in a jesting tone, Eragon murmured, "Has anyone ever told you about your piercing stares, Aráthiel?"

Surprising him, Aráthiel laughed, a gentle and short melodious laugh that floated softly in the night, "You would be the first, Ebrithil."

Keeping his smile, he insisted, "Eragon."

Returning it, Aráthiel repeated, "You would be the first... _Eragon._"

"They are wonderful, they could be your secret weapons. You need only to gaze upon men and they would be enthralled," Eragon continued. He felt momentarily joyous, talking with the young female elf. They were friends and he felt care-free, to act normally as himself. Eragon thought he saw a blush creep up to Aráthiel's cheeks and she tilted her head down slightly, as if embarrassed by his comment. Her dark straight hair fell forward and covered the side of her face momentarily. Eragon glimpsed the sea ahead of him as well, distracting himself. He knew not why he started the conversation in what could be discerned as a flirtatious manner. But he did not mean so.

_Ah, who am I fooling? _Eragon scoffed to himself. Perhaps he held an _inkling_ of attraction towards Aráthiel. It was not much, but it was enough for Eragon to realize. He liked Aráthiel, but _he loved Arya. _And there, lied the truth.

There was no confusion about it, no uncertainty. However, he knew that if his heart had not already belonged to Arya, he might've developed feelings for the young female elf beside him. Deliberating this, Eragon felt slightly terrible for his wayward actions. Aráthiel certainly did not deserve them and he had no grounds to lead her on a realization she would not be happy with. Nevertheless, he wished they would remain friends for he enjoyed her company. Eragon could always feel like he could be himself around her and not fear for facades or formalities. It was the beginning of a great friendship and he did not wish to let it go.

Sensing the presence of strange water creatures, Eragon stepped closer to the edge and discerned grey, sharp-nosed water creatures hopping the silent waters. The creatures themselves, however, were not so silent. As they emerged from the water and sensed his presence the creatures squeaked. There were four of them, swimming in a two by two formation as they sped along the ship. Eragon recalled their names in a book he had read somewhere a long time ago. _Dolphins_.

As they gave another high-pitched squeak, Eragon laughed. He looked over his shoulder to find Aráthiel appearing surprised. "Come look," Eragon gestured to her, smiling.

Seemingly affected by his enthusiasm, Aráthiel stepped towards the ship's prow and leaned over. The dolphins were still skipping the waters and they seemed joyous doing so. She let out an incoherent exclaim of surprise and smiled widely, "They're lovely creatures," she commented. She seemed enthralled by the moment and Eragon thought she looked serenly beautiful in the light. He smiled slightly and wondered at his captivation. Maybe it was the moonlit moment that sparked such thoughts. Uncertainty mingled with confusion but Eragon soon stopped delving into the situation and just preoccupied himself with the present.

Enjoying the night and enthused by the wonders of the dolphins, Eragon and Aráthiel remained at the prow of the ship, silently observing the water creatures until late into the starry night. Eragon laughed as the creatures jumped as high as the railings and managed to spray water at them. The seemingly sombre atmosphere that had shrouded the ship during the early hours of their departure had seemed to have disappeared. Instead, it had turned into a silent night filled with smiles and small talk between two friends.

It was about a few hours before sunrise when Eragon and Aráthiel chose to finally retire to sleep. As his time with the young female elf ended, Eragon thought that he had enjoyed himself. He valued her company greatly. However, he only hoped that their friendship would remain strong when they reach Alagaësia.

Because by the end of the night, it was not Aráthiel who held his heart, it was still Arya.


End file.
